


Tso'ape Mumbichi

by keeptogethernow



Series: Talon!AU [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harm to Children, I'm Bad At Tagging, It makes sense, Jason Todd is Robin, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Talon!AU, Tim Drake is a Talon, fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptogethernow/pseuds/keeptogethernow
Summary: Ten years ago, two people made a deal with the devil--unlimited funds in exchange for their child. And now it's time to pay up. But there's no way to ensure that the child will cooperate.





	1. Collected Debts

**Author's Note:**

> The title translates roughly to "Ghost of the Owl". My Shoshone isn't what it should be. I'm sorry, Aunt Bee!

Bruce surveys the crime scene, feeling shaken. It’s not that he hasn’t seen worse scenes, but it has been a long time since a crime like this struck so close to home. He knows that this is slightly different—hell, he wasn’t even really aware that he _had_ neighbors until tonight, and, while he’s met the Drakes before, he can’t say that he really knew them at all. And yet, he can’t seem to shake the irrational feeling of grief and anger over this murder.

Having been unable to access the scene before tonight, he had plenty of time to piece together what had happened two days prior. The large estate, located about a mile from Wayne Manor, was occasionally occupied by the Drake family: Jack, Janet, and their ten year old son, Timothy. Since they rarely used the estate, there were no staff there that week. Apparently, the Drakes had returned from a trip overseas and decided to stay there instead of driving all the way home to downtown Gotham.

A call was placed to emergency dispatchers around two a.m. by the son. Bruce has listened to it so many times that he's memorized it:

_“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”_

_“There’s someone in the house.”_

_“Okay, sweetheart, can you tell me your name?”_

_“Tim. They got my dad.”_

_“The police are on their way right now. Do you know who’s in the house, Tim?”_

_“No.”_

_“Okay. You said that they hurt your dad? Is your mom there?”_

_“Yeah. Mom’s downstairs still. She told me to hide and call you. And then she was screaming, and I don’t know where she is now. They cut dad’s head off.”_

_“Alright, where are you hiding, Tim? Can you get out of the house?”_

_“No.”_

_“Can you lock the door?”_

_“I did, but it’s a cheap lock.”_

_“Okay—“_

_“I’m hiding under the bed.”_

_“That’s good. Alright, sweetheart, the police will be there in just a few minutes. I need you to stay on the line with me.”_

_“’Kay.”_

_“Can you tell if they’re still in the house?”_

_“…they’re coming up the stairs.”_

_“Okay. Stay with me, Tim.”_

_“…”_

_“Are they outside?”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_“I need you to keep the phone on, alright?”_

_“…oh…no…”_

_“Tim? Tim, can you hear me? What’s happening?”_

_“_ No! Get away from me! No!”

“ _Tim? Tim, are you still there? What’s happening?_ Tim?”

The call lasted maybe five minutes. But by the time the police had arrived, there had been no sign of Tim. Both parents were found in the house, brutally murdered. The child’s room had been thoroughly wrecked, but there was nothing to indicate what had happened to him.

Thus far, the police were totally stumped. Even Bruce had to admit that the entire thing was quite out of the ordinary. There were two clues that had been found: there was no sign of forced entry, and with each body, the feather of a barn owl had been found. There were no fingerprints besides the family’s, and all the blood found had been matched to the parents.

Bruce’s digging had turned up some interesting details that the police had yet to uncover. First, it had quickly become apparent to him that the Drakes were not attentive or present parents; in fact, their parenting methods bordered on neglect—the parents had traveled regularly, but their son had never left the country, there had been no full-time caregiver since he was five, and he had, in fact, been staying alone on the estate for over a month before his parents came home. Additionally, the Drakes had been having financial troubles—their business was failing and the family’s inherited money was long spent; yet they had been able to afford regular international trips _and_ they maintained multiple properties both in Gotham and throughout the country.

Yes, overall, it was a very strange case. Bruce was, admittedly, disturbed by it in some way. Maybe it was because he had boys of his own—and Jason wasn’t that much older than Tim was, no, _is._ Or maybe it’s because the brutal crime was committed so close to his own home. Either way, he’s determined to solve this case.

After thoroughly examining the scene and taking some samples that might help, he heads back to the cave. He’s surprised to find that both Jason and Dick are there already—Jason because he “lives here, God, Bruce.” And Dick because he “missed Alfred’s cooking”, although Bruce was pretty sure it was because his older son was trying to be nicer to Jason and get to know him. Regardless, they both seem to be intent on finding out what Bruce is working on right now.

“Whatcha doin’?” Jason asks, flopping over the top of Bruce’s chair.

Bruce closes the computer window and flips over the files. “Nothing that you’re involved with.”

“Ooo, sounds interesting.” Dick pipes up, walking over and trying to grab the papers. “Am I involved?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Dick fake pouts. “Lemme see.”

He debates for a minute, before deciding.

“Jason, did you actually _do_ your math homework, or did you stare at it for ten minutes and then quit?”

“I asked Dick for help, but he sucks at helping. So I _did_ try!”

“Go finish it, please.” Bruce says, rolling his eyes at the excuse.

Jason groans loudly and stomps upstairs, muttering rebelliously under his breath. Dick looks amused, but his expression turns solemn when the boy’s gone.

“That bad?” Dick inquires, raising an eyebrow.

Bruce grunts. “You have no idea. Here.”

He waits patiently while the young man reads through the files. Finally, Dick finishes and leans back against the desk, flipping through the papers idly.

“And there’s no leads?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Not yet. As far as anyone can tell, the boy might as well have vanished into thin air.”

Dick nods, staring at the photos intently. “Hey, we know them, right? I mean, they’re part of the whole ‘rich and famous’ circle. The kid looks familiar too.”

“That’s because you’ve met before.” Bruce slides over an old photograph he’d found in Tim’s room. “I found this.”

“Huh.” Dick stares intently at the picture. It’s foggy, but he vaguely remembers that encounter—he and his parents often did photo ops before the show. He sort of remembers that he’d thought the kid was cute, he’d even joked about keeping him, both because Dick was trying to get his parents to have more kids, and also because the little boy had been so excited and awestruck, but the parents couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge anything the child said. “Yeah, I kinda remember that. Um, I didn’t like the parents.”

Bruce nods. “You wouldn’t have been the first one to say that. Anyway, it seems he was quite a fan of yours—he kept newspaper clippings about you.”

“That’s…kinda creepy. And sad. I mean, what kid does that for a hobby?”

“A lonely one. He was also into photography.”

“Okay?” Dick frowns at the grim tone. “And?”

Wordlessly, the man slides over a box of glossy photos. Dick picks up a few, flipping through with increasing astonishment.

“Are all of these of Batman and Robin?”

“Yes.”

“How did he even…" the young man pauses and inhales slowly. "Okay, so the kid was running around Gotham all night. Did he know who was in the suit?”

Bruce sighs. “I don’t know. If he did, he never wrote it down anywhere that I can find.”

“Wow.”

“Hnn.” Bruce starts shuffling through the papers. “He followed us around for at least two years, and we never noticed him. I didn’t even realize that there was anyone staying at that house, and he was there for months at a time.”

Dick nods. “You’re feeling all guilty now, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re not going to obsess.”

“We need to find out what happened, Dick. There are two people dead, brutally murdered in their own homes, and there’s a ten year old boy who has been abducted and may be alive somewhere.”

“So you are.” Dick sighs. “I’ll help, if it’ll make you chill out. You’re not going to forget about everything else, right? I mean, you _do_ have a kid here, and he deserves your attention just as much. Don't forget--I've seen what happens when you're obsessed.”

Bruce nods. “I know, and I’m not going to ‘obsess’. But I _will_ find out what happened, even if it takes years.”


	2. It Took Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some mysteries that haunt you. But there are others that come back and kill you.

Dick never forgot. It’s been nearly three years now since Bruce brought home the Drake case, and they still have no answers. In a lot of ways, he’s actually kind of grateful for the cold case. After all, because of that case, he started hanging around Gotham regularly and he’d actually gotten to know Jason pretty well. They don’t have a perfect relationship by any stretch of the imagination, but they’re friends for sure. Even Dick’s relationship with Bruce has improved a bit—they can make it over a month without a real fight, and he’s still got some space—he’s renting an apartment and crashes there pretty regularly.

But Dick never did forget that case. Maybe it’s because he _does_ remember Tim Drake, or because he can’t fathom how lonely the kid must have been—that was one of the thing he and Bruce had found, that Tim spent a _lot_ of time either alone or surrounded by adults who were paid to mind him and nothing more.

 _Maybe it’s because obsession runs in the family_.

Right now, he’s thinking about that case because of the one they’re currently working on. It’s a series of strange murders that are eerily similar to the one years ago. Bruce decided that Dick and Jason could handle it alone, so the cold case hasn’t been brought up yet. _And maybe, hopefully, they aren’t connected at all._

Thus far, there have been four murders, all members of Gotham’s elite, all slaughtered in their own homes, one literally in her bed. Dick and Jason decided that they could probably get away with assuming that the murderer— _although he’s much more like an assassin—_ had a type—the rich and powerful. The only other things they have to go off of, the things that make Dick think of the cold case, are the lack of forced entry and the same calling card—an owl’s feather, placed on each body.

He’s still mulling over these things as he makes his way across (over) Gotham, enjoying the cool night air. Nightwing isn’t expected in the cave until later tonight, and he’s not going to pass up a chance to have a little fun. _Besides, if we call it an extra patrol, I’m just being thorough,_ he justifies, preparing to swing by several of their potential victims’ homes— _just in case._

As Nightwing leaves behind the neighborhood, intending to start a more direct route to the cave, he sees something out of the corner of his eye—it’s just a glimpse of movement, a curtain twitching in one of the houses he just checked, but it doesn’t sit right with him. The night is calm and, unless he’s seriously mistake, that window is  _closed._

Frowning, he silently makes his way back, finally perching on the roof across from the window, and waits. It’s just a few seconds later when the curtain moves again, barely noticeable. Nightwing tenses, trying to remember who lives there, and, more importantly, is there anyone in the house who might have a legitimate reason for being awake and moving about enough to move the curtains at twelve-thirty a.m.?  _Stan Kitch,_ he recalls, _a district attorney. Lives alone._ Crap.

Nightwing moves quickly, smashing through the window he’d been observing— _maybe not the smartest plan, but definitely the fastest._ He roll into a landing, looking around wildly. He sees Kitch laying on the floor, definitely dead, though only recently. Nightwing curses, checking for a pulse just in case, still trying to locate the assassin—there’s not enough time for him to have gotten out.

He sees that the door to the room is ajar, sees something move on the other side. Nightwing jumps up and chases after it. When he exits the room, he sees the person disappear down the stairs at the end of the hall. Racing to catch up, he skips the stairs in favor of flipping off the banister and landing lightly on the floor. The figure is already racing for another room, but there’s almost no real distance between them now. Baring his teeth in a wild grin, Nightwing bears down on the figure, who deftly opens a door, shutting it directly in the vigilante’s face.

In the milliseconds it takes him to open the door, the figure is gone, vanished. Nightwing scours the room, searching for any indicators of how they got out, but all he finds is a slightly open window, far too small for him to fit through. _Damn it!_

_..._

“I _still_ think that it’s some sort of ghost!” Jason says, shoving one of the files over towards Dick’s side of the table. “I mean, no fingerprints, no sign of entry, no sign of a struggle, nothing. It’s gotta be a ghost!”

“It’s _not_ a ghost.” Dick says tiredly—he spent a good three hours trying to find the assassin yesterday, and then had to patrol. He’s had _maybe_ four hours of sleep in the past two days. “Ghosts don’t leave calling cards and they don’t steal food out of the fridge.”

“It could be a hungry ghost.”

“Or it could be a sneaky person.”

Jason groans. “Fine. Not a ghost…until we prove otherwise. So…what kind of person sneaks into someone’s home without leaving a mark, _slaughters_ the owner, and then has a snack before leaving and locking up behind them?”

“Well, there was only signs of someone using the fridge once, so maybe that’s just a fluke.” Dick starts flipping through the crime scene photos, setting certain ones in a line. “But the rest is the same. And there’s the whole owl feather thing. Look, the bodies are all in the same position and so is the feather.”

“Oh yeah.” Jason grins. “Well, that’s _something_. Any ideas, oh, experienced one?”

Dick snorts and pulls up a window on the computer next to them. “Well, there _was_ this case from a few years back. Um, don’t tell Bruce I let you see this one. He didn’t want you involved. Anyway…here we go…so, two years and ten months ago, someone got into this house without leaving any signs and then murdered the couple who owned the place. There were owl feathers found on each body. But that’s the end of the similarities.”

“So…our guy’s a copycat?”

“Not exactly. I mean, whoever did the cold case didn’t kill them the same way, and they didn’t pose the bodies, and he also kidnapped their ten year old son from his bedroom upstairs. The kid’s body was never found.”

Frowning, Jason grabs the mouse to click through the file. Dick lets him and turns to study the other photos. Something struck him when he was showing Jason the old case, and he wants to check it. _Come on, come on, I’m not crazy here. Where is it…yes!_

“These were definitely not the same guy.” He announces. “Jay, look at these. What do you notice about the injuries?”  
Jason cocks his head and stares fixedly at the photos for several minutes. Then he says “Oh. Oh! The angles are different from the older case. But the technique’s the same. Right?”

“Bingo.” Dick grins. “These had to have been made by someone small and light, you can tell from the spacing and the depth of the injuries. The other one was done by someone taller—they just lopped off their heads. But the technique’s very similar. So…?”

“We’re looking for a duo, one older person and an apprentice?”

“That’s what I’d bet on.”

“Awesome!” Jason cheers. “So can we go then? I mean, we’ve got a pattern in the victims—all upper-class people with money and connections, and now we’ve got an idea of _who_ did it.”

Dick nods and hops up, moving towards the bikes. “Yep. Let’s go check on our potential victims.”

It’s not a long list, and they’ve intentionally left Bruce Wayne off the list— _he can take care of himself_. The first two people aren’t in any danger: Sophia Starr isn’t even in the country, and Prescott Belmont and family are all either happily in bed or are enjoying a glass of wine, security system in place and bodyguards patrolling the grounds. But when they get to the third person’s, things change.

The residence in question belongs to one Zubin Zucchini, which makes Jason snicker every time the name is said. But this time it doesn’t, because when they get there, all the lights are out and so is the security system. They enter silently through a window, straining to hear anything that will tell them where Zubin is.

“Take the first floor.” Nightwing hisses. “I have the upstairs.” _Please listen to me. If there’s something up, it’ll probably be in the bedroom, upstairs, and I_ really _don’t want you there._

When he makes it to the top of the staircase, Nightwing stops to listen and turn on the nightvision setting in his mask. After a moment, there’s a small sound, like a person moaning in pain, from somewhere off to his right. _I was right…oh shit. I was right._ He creeps forward quietly, radioing Robin as he does.

“There’s something up here. I’m checking it out.”

He turns his comm on mute to prevent it being heard. There’s a soft, scuffling sound from the room ahead, barely audible. Holding his breath, Nightwing eases forward and slowly, silently opens the door.

The room is illuminated only by the light filtering in through the window, throwing a pale light on the scene before him: Zubin Zucchini lies prone on the floor, blood pooling from his injuries, a small, dark figure with a strange mask crouching over him, knife still in hand. Nightwing flips the light on— _the masks are made to adjust to sudden changes in light, thank God—_ and rushes forward to try and help the dying man.

The slight figure, clad all in black, has backed up against the wall, clearly trying to adjust to the sudden change in light. Nightwing kneels by the dying man, torn between helping the victim and taking out the assassin, who is just now starting to recover. Before either can move, Robin comes running in. He takes the whole situation in and then does the one thing Nightwing had hoped to keep his little brother from doing—he yells “Hey!” and charges the assassin.

Robin was hoping to just tackle the assassin— _Or is it just a murderer?—_ but as soon as he starts moving, so does the person, who throws the knife in his hand at Robin’s head and then smashes the window and dives out.

Narrowly avoiding the projectile and ignoring Nightwing’s protest behind him, Robin follows. The assassin— _it just sounds cooler!—_ nimbly lands on the roof, then takes off, heading for the nearest building. Robin follows, taking advantage of the sudden growth spurt he just had to gain on the much smaller person. _It’s either a_ really _small woman or a kid,_ he observes.

The person is nearly in reach when he takes a sudden dive off of the roof, nimbly catching hold of the fire escape across the way and clambering up. Robin follows, using his grapnel to bridge the gap and get to the top of the roof before the other person. But when he lands, the assassin is nowhere to be found—it’s as though he’s vanished into thin air.

Robin tries to catch his breath, looking around wildly as he tries to find the assassin. He can hear Nightwing shouting at him over the comms, and he decides to answer.

“I’m…fine…” he wheezes out. “Lost him.”

 Nightwing doesn’t say anything to Robin for the rest of the evening, until they get back to the cave.

“You ever do something like that again,” The older vigilante says, peeling his mask off. “And I _will_ make you wear one of those fucking ankle bracelets, with the alarm set to go off if you get more than twenty feet away from me!”

Bruce looks up from the computer, a puzzled look on his face. “What happened?”

“He did something stupid.” Dick states, not wanting to go into it. “But he’s fine. I’m going to take a shower.”

Bruce frowns a little, but seems to accept the answer. Jason, who’d been watching the interaction with wide eyes, chases after his older brother.

“Hey!” He calls after Dick when they’re in the locker room. “Why’d you lie?”

Dick looks annoyed, but his voice is even when he answers. “Because I’ve been the idiot who ran off before. And I’m not gonna throw you under the bus for being reckless. Not when it all ended well. But I _will_ if you ever do something like that again.”

“I thought you were gonna put a bracelet on me?”

“That too. Now, go away. I’ll meet you upstairs in the office we’ve been using in an hour.”

“Why?”

“ _Because,”_ Dick says, throwing one of his boots at the teenager. “While you were playing tag with an assassin in an owl mask, _I_ actually found a lead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: both Zubin Zucchini and Stan Kitch are real DC characters. Zucchini was in that campy Batman and Robin tv show (the one with Adam West and Burt Ward), and Stan Kitch was in 75 issues of Detective Comics back in the 90s (fact check--I don't remember the exact dates).


	3. Beware the Court of Owls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forward, one step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, sorry! I'm getting ready to go in for a magical weekend of medical testing and there's so much to do before that.

An hour later, Dick and Jason have ensconced themselves one of the plush couches found throughout the Manor. Jason is working his way through a bowl of popcorn, while Dick works on pulling something up on the laptop he holds.

“So…” Jason says after a few moments. “What’d you find?”

“Gimme a minute.” Dick mutters, not looking up.

Jason groans and flops back, not feeling exceptionally patient. He starts tossing popcorn into the air and tries to catch it with his mouth. After a few tosses, he stops, suddenly thinking about how much trouble he’ll be in with Alfred if there are any kernels left on the floor. Still bored, he adjusts his position so he can jostle Dick’s arm with his feet.

Dick swats at him, finally looking up. “Knock it off, brat. Okay, so you know how the masks record everything, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Zubin wasn’t dead when we go there, and he was trying to talk while I was trying to keep him from bleeding out. Kinda defeated the purpose, but he seemed to feel it was more important. Anyway, it didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I figure we’ve got the time and brains to get something out of it now.”

Snatching a handful of the buttery snack for himself, Dick taps the play button for the recording, sliding the laptop so it’s between him and Jason. The younger boy leans forward, focused on the screen.

The recording is slightly grainy, but he can clearly make out every gory detail of the dying man’s final breaths. He’s gasping, choking on the blood, while Nightwing keeps telling him to be quiet. Suddenly, Zubin throws his hand up, grabbing at something off screen (presumably Nightwing’s arm), straining to speak as blood leaks from his mouth.

“T-the…beware…c-court-t o-of… _owls…_ ” The man sputters, before falling back, gagging and choking.

Dick leans forward and taps the button to pause the recording. “That’s what he said. He died maybe two minutes after that. So…any ideas?”

“He wasted his last breath on a nursery rhyme?” Jason asks, snorting derisively. “Wow, that’s lame.”

“Uh…what?” Dick looks confused. “That’s a nursery rhyme?”

“Well, yeah.” Jason looks confused, but then his expression clears. “ _Oh._ Um, it’s a Gotham thing, as far as I know. And, um, it’s less of a rich person thing too. So I guess you just didn’t hear it.”

Dick shrugs. “No. So enlighten me.”

“Yeah, okay.” The teen grimaces, trying to recall the whole thing. “It’s been a few years,” he explains apologetically, before clearing his throat and reciting in a slow, sing-song manner,

“ _Beware the Court of Owls,_

_That watches all the time,_

_Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch,_

_Behind granite and lime._

_They watch you in your bed;_

_Speak not a whispered word of them,_

_Or they’ll send the Talon for your head_.”

They’re both silent for a long moment after he’s finished.

“Wow. And they call it a nursery rhyme?” Dick shudders. “That’s all kinds of creepy. Like, Russian-lullaby-creepy.”

Jason shrugs, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth. “Well, it _is_ Gotham. And it’s one of those ‘cautionary tales’, like, um, the whole Krampus legend and stuff. So…”

“Still creepy.” Dick says, shaking his head. “Okay, so this ‘Court’ is like the Gotham-version of the Illuminati, right? What’s a ‘Talon’?”

“Dunno, it’s just a kid’s song. What’s the Illumin-whatever?”

Dick sighs, tapping the edge of the laptop keyboard absently. “It’s a conspiracy thing, I’ll explain it all later. Well, it’s a kid’s song that he felt was important enough to die for. So what do we know about it?”

Since Jason’s knowledge is limited to the rhyme and few half-remembered warnings about “Talons”—“They’re like assassins or something, sort like a bogey-man thing.”—Dick spends a good half hour looking up every reference to the Court of Owls from the past twenty years. The results are pitiful—a few blogs, one or two of the less-reputable news magazines, and one clickbait article entitled “Ten Things You Won’t Believe the Court of Owls Controls”.

“Damn.” Dick scowls, roughly shutting the computer. “That’s a dead end.”

“Coulda told you that.” Jason mumbles, playing with his phone. “We’re gonna have to ask people. Maybe B knows?”

Standing up, Dick agrees, offering a hand to his younger brother. “Yeah, let’s start with him and go from there.”

The two head back down to the cave, already thinking of who might know the most useful information. Unsurprisingly, Bruce is still awake, settled in front of the huge computer, working on something that involves a lot of numbers.

He doesn’t look up when they enter, but then again, he _is_ Batman, and that’s pretty much how he always is. Dick rolls his eyes in annoyance, because there’s nothing quite as exasperating as Bruce ignoring them. Jason takes a more direct approach and very cheerfully launches himself onto the back of the chair, flopping over it to rest his chin on the top of his father’s head.

“Can I help you?” Bruce asks drily, still typing away.

“Hope so!” Jason grins and hops off as the man turns around. “We have some questions about the assassinations-murder-thingies.”

“I’m hoping one of these questions might be ‘where did you go wrong in teaching me terminology?’” Bruce mutters, massaging his temples. “Okay, shoot.”

Jason looks expectantly over at Dick, because he _is_ the senior vigilante. Dick sighs.

“What do you know about the Court of Owls?”

Bruce stares at both of his sons for a long moment, before stating shortly “They don’t exist.”

“Well, what _if—_ “

“They. _Don’t._ Exist.” The man almost snaps. “Trust me, it’s just an old wives-tale to scare children. They’re not real.”

“How do you know?” Jason pipes up curiously.

“Because I investigated years ago, and there’s nothing to the stories.” Bruce explains tiredly. “I mean, do you two _really_ think that there’s a group of people controlling all of Gotham secretly? It’s a ridiculous conspiracy theory with no real credit.”

Jason frowns, glancing at Dick for an explanation regarding Bruce’s strange behavior. His brother shakes his head very slightly, just as much at a loss. Bruce frowns at both of them, looking almost angry, before he turns back towards the computers.

“Okay, well…” Dick shrugs. “Thanks, I guess. C’mon, Jaybird. It’s getting late anyway.”

He grabs Jason’s arm and almost pulls the boy along until they’re upstairs. Jason starts squirming as soon as they’ve reached the top of the stairs, so Dick releases his grip.

“We’re just letting it go?” Jason sounds scandalized. “Just like that?”

“No.” Dick looks contemplative. “We’re not. Believe it or not, Bruce doesn’t _actually_ know everything. Besides, he’s the one who always says that you should always check the facts for yourself.”

“Oh.”

Dick snorts. “Yeah, ‘oh’. Like I’ve ever dropped something that fast. Look, we’re just gonna do our own snooping, since Bruce has some sort of complex about this whole thing.”

Jason grins, excited— _an actual investigation_ without _Bruce’s knowledge. So._ Cool!

Unfortunately, he quickly learns that there’s actually very little fun to be had in this investigation. Two nights later, they _still_ don’t have any real leads, and there’s another socialite dead. What they _do_ have is a lot of strange stories and theories about the Court of Owls, one dead body, and a very pissed off Batman.

The man had announced the murder to both of them while they were still in the cave, then given orders for them to “stay put” while he dealt with it himself. Dick had glared and Jason had groaned, but they didn’t argue. As soon as he was gone, they quickly logged into the computer and pulled up all their own information, as well as the live feed from Batman’s cowl.

The crime scene is almost completely in keeping with all the others, at least at first. But as the man continues investigating the scene, Dick frowns and leans in, freezing several frames and pulling them up on another screen to take a closer look.

“This one was done by someone else.” He says, frowning in concentration.

“Huh?” Jason peers at the screen. “Whaddya mean?”

“Look at the injuries. This was the same person who did the very first one. The angles are different.”

“ _Oh._ ”

Dick nods absently. “So whoever murdered the Drakes is still around and killing people. I mean, it’s not been _that_ long, I guess. It makes sense that he isn’t dead or anything.”

“Sure.” Jason shrugs. “But he’s not the only one killing people now.”

“Right. So we’re still looking at two people.”

“Yeah.” Jason frowns a little, tilting his head slightly. “And we’re sure that the one person is, like, tiny. I mean, we _saw_ that one. Plus the whole angle thing.”

“Your point?”

Jason hums for a second, then leans over and pulls up one of the frames from the footage of their last encounter with the assassin. “Look. This was when I was chasing the guy. You see that air duct? When I stand next to it, it comes up to my shoulder, which means it’s about four, four and a half feet. And this is the assassin next to it—his head _barely_ clears the top.”

Dick’s eyes widen with realization as he looks at it. “We’re looking for a kid?”

“That or it’s a _really_ short person. But yeah, I think we’re looking for a kid. It’d explain the angles of the injuries too, plus how they keep getting out of the houses undetected.” Jason frowns, thinking.

“Sounds right.” Dick says, nodding. “So let’s go with that—we’re looking for a duo, one adult who’s at _least_ six feet tall, and a kid.”

“They never found the Drake kid.” Jason offers, scrunching his nose. “Maybe that’s what happened to him?”

Skeptically, Dick says “This guy kidnapped a ten year old and turned him into an assassin? And both of them work for some secret organization that may or may not exist and has a serious fixation with owls? I mean, even the mask he was wearing looked like a freaking owl face.” The young man throws his hands up, frustrated. “ _And_ they’ve killed five people this month. We’ve got no leads, no clues, and now we’re stuck listening to Bruce yell at us for ‘allowing it to get out of hand’. Did I miss anything?”

Jason sighs and leans back in his chair, letting his head hang over the back. “That about sums it up, thanks.”

“So maybe we can avoid making any more unrealistic suggestions for the time being? Because we’re really running out of time here, Jay.”

“Well, maybe we can find a lead on their identities?” Jason says appealingly. “I mean, we’ve got some stuff. Like, how many kids can you think of who’d be running around Gotham at night dressed like an owl-ninja and murdering people? Or an adult, for that matter?”

Dick hums noncommittally, thinking about what Jason just said. _The thing is,_ he muses slowly, _that Jason has a point. And there’s literally only one kid we know of who’s potentially connected with this conspiracy._ He frowns and squints at the screen, staring at the small, grainy figure on the display. _But that can’t be right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a point of reference regarding "Russian-lullaby-creepy", may I recommend "Tili Tili Bom": https://youtu.be/BDMmj5WgB8c  
> Also, the entire point of Krampus was to keep kids from being naughty around Christmas time, because if they misbehaved, this freaking goat-man-demon thing would come down the chimney, kidnap them, then eat them. There's actually a really entertaining horror movie that came out this past year about the Krampus, and I highly recommend it. It's like a Gremlins-meets-Chucky type Christmas movie, and it's really more funny than scary.


	4. What Kind of Owl is That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason loves being right, but he'll be damned if he doesn't get a chance to gloat about it!

If there’s one bright side to the frequent murders, Dick’s pretty sure that it’s the fact that, by process of elimination, there are a lot less names on the list of potential victims. And of those, there are only two currently in Gotham. He’s actually very thankful for this, because, quite frankly, he’s exhausted.

Jason, by virtue of being a kid, seems to have a never-ending source of energy. He’s bouncing around, chattering non-stop about something he read in class today. Dick’s not really listening—he’s focused more on sticking his landings and not tripping, feeling ridiculously old for someone his age.

They approach Samantha Vanaver’s stately residence cautiously, hoping to not alert anyone to their presence. It’s still incredibly early, because thus far, they’ve been unable to predict when and where the assassins will strike, and this tactic might give them a chance. And since it’s so early, Ms. Vanaver has yet to arrive back, and they seize the opportunity to slip inside and setup some basic motion sensors.

“Think this’ll work?” Robin asks, as they settle down on a roof across the way.

Nightwing shrugs. “Beats trying to guess when something’s happening. I mean, we haven’t even _seen_ this guy until it’s over, so…” He trails off, because he’s not entirely sure if this tactic will actually make a difference.

Robin hums in agreement and seems satisfied with the answer, relaxing against a power box. The teen hero seems to be entirely at peace with this entire thing, he even seems to be enjoying it, Nightwing thinks sourly. The older hero groans softly and flops down on the roof, eyes shut—the sensor will sound off an alarm in his ear piece, so he’s hoping for a quick nap.

Stake-outs are incredibly boring, Robin quickly remembers. He opens his mouth to complain, but sees that Nightwing has fallen asleep. He’s well aware that his older brother has been running on fumes and needs the sleep, so he sighs and doesn’t say anything. He’ll find some other way to entertain himself.

About an hour later, he’s counted every visible window in the area, recited every poem and soliloquy he’s memorized quietly, and even snuck a cigarette—because he’s _that_ bored. Now his tailbone aches, he’s feeling cold, and he’s starting to get pissed off at Nightwing for napping. Growling softly, Robin slowly stands up, stretching in an effort to get life back into his limbs.

Suddenly, he catches something in the corner of his eye—something glinting very briefly in the moonlight. Robin casually turns in that direction, pretending to be oblivious as he scans the surrounding buildings. He’s almost convinced himself when he sees it again—a very dim flash of light on metal, barely visible to the untrained eye.

Impulsively, Robin grabs and throws a Batarang at the light. The projectile speeds off, disappearing in the dark. Then, as though directly in response to this action, a dark figure breaks away from the shadows and starts to flee.

Robin shouts “Hey!” and takes off. He hopes that Nightwing isn’t so deep asleep that he doesn’t hear the sound, but realizes that it’s a little late to think of that at this point. Shaking off the concern, the teen grapnels across rooftop gaps, leaping over obstacles, going faster and faster as he tries to keep up with his quarry.

The assassin seems to a bit slower this evening, Robin notes quickly. He’s actually gaining ground on the person—there’s only about a roof’s length between them. Grinning and eager for the triumph, the teen puts on a burst of speed, closing the distance. The black-clad figure seems to realize that running isn’t an option and turns to face the charging vigilante.

Recognizing his error—the person has at least one blade he can see, Robin redirects his charge into a flip over the small figure’s head. It’s not as graceful as Nightwing’s would probably have been, but it works, sending him over the assassin and towards a wall, which he uses to spring off of, letting the momentum catapult him back at the ninja-like figure. The assassin side-steps nimbly, creating space between the two.

Robin assesses the situation swiftly—size-wise, he’s got at least a four inch advantage, but the assassin has a knife in each hand and he’s out to kill. The teenager grimaces and starts circling, trying to gain some time. The assassin matches him step for step, head cocked slightly, like he’s curious.

The mask he wears fascinates Robin—it’s very much like an owl’s face, with a beak and two huge, tinted glass eyes. There’s two stylized eyebrows as well, swooping up to produce almost horn-like tips. Robin’s not very familiar with owls, but he _thinks_ it’s supposed to be a great horned owl. It’s slightly disturbing, the vigilante notes, note being able to see the other’s face at all.

Taking advantage of his distraction, the assassin lunges forward, blades flashing, aimed at Robin’s stomach. He snaps out of it in an instant and blocks, a bit clumsily, redirecting the assassin’s motion towards the wall. The blades make a horrible scraping sound against the bricks, and Robin slams his full weight into the smaller figure’s back, trying to trap the blades under them.

A sharp kick to the shin ruins this plan, and the assassin leaps away as Robin quickly regains his footing. His arm is bleeding from the block, but it’s not a deep wound. He blows it off, taking the advantage and swinging blows at the assassin. A lucky shot sends one knife flying, and the assassin moves back as quickly as possible, still deflecting the punches.

This is when Robin realizes that he’s being toyed with…just as his opponent ducks under a swing and slashes forward with the blade. Amazingly, the Kevlar in his uniform holds, the knife skidding harmlessly across his stomach. The situation alarms him, and he swings wildly, panicking a little. Somehow or other, Robin does manage to land a glancing blow to the assassin’s head, mostly hitting the mask.

Jumping back, Robin checks his stomach quickly, terrified that he’s been gutted. Once he sees that he’s unscathed, the teen shakes it off and looks over at his opponent, breathing heavily. During his blind flailing, he must have knocked the assassin’s mask—really, it’s more of a hood, he sees now—askew, because it’s crooked, giving the person the unsettling illusion of having their head twisted unnaturally to the side. The assassin is scrambling wildly to get his vision cleared, well aware of the vulnerability of this position.

Recalling every single lesson where Batman stressed pressing the advantage, Robin feels no guilt in fighting dirty, slams into the struggling person, sending them both the ground, just as the assassin yanks the hood off, clearly done struggling with it. The position that the assassin had been in now sabotages his further—the hand that had held the knife ends up trapped, pinned under his own head and neck, knife flung out of reach.

In less than a moment, Robin realizes that this owl-themed ninja has _fucking claws_ on his gloves—though it does flash through his mind that they’d be talons, oh, the irony—as the assassin slashes as him viciously. One blow lands, slicing the material along his arm and shoulder, managing to draw blood when it connects with his collarbone.

Robin grunts, struggling hard to keep the smaller person pinned, while trying to get control over the free arm. For some reason, he imagines that this must be what wrestling an alligator feels like, as the assassin writhes, trying to buck him off or land a good blow. The vigilante isn’t sure why his mind keeps skipping from thought to though—maybe his head had gotten hit?

After very narrowly avoiding a blow that would have ripped his neck open, Robin gives up on just pinning the person and decides to try bludgeoning them into either submission or unconsciousness. He slams his fist into the assassin’s head and face at least four times before he gets a grip, desperation and anger fading with the realization that he’s got no idea what to do if he _does_ have the assassin incapacitated, and also that Nightwing still wasn’t there—and he should be there…assuming nothing bad happened.

He’s so stunned by the thought that when the assassin somehow manages to get a good blow to the side of his head, knocking him over, Robin hardly feels it. They both scramble back, each trying to get distance enough to mount a good defense. Robin winces as the pain starts to register, willing his eyes to focus on the enemy.

It takes a moment for him to recognize that the assassin isn’t actually trying to attack him, instead crouching and scrutinizing him warily. The first coherent thought Robin has is that he had totally called it—this assassin can’t be more than _maybe_ fourteen, probably younger. Of course, he doubts anyone will give him credit for this if the pint-sized assassin _kills_ him.

Unconsciously, he makes a face at the idea, quickly correcting it when the kid across from him narrows his eyes. Robin glares back, trying to come up with a plan before the assassin does. The situation at this moment is tricky—he’s bleeding pretty badly from one shoulder and his head, the assassin now has one of his blades back, and who knows where Nightwing had disappeared to.

Robin opens and then shuts his mouth, not sure what he’d even say. So instead he stares, hoping for some inspiration. The boy across for him is incredibly pale, almost ghostly so, with huge, strange eyes—blue-gray, with a gold streaks laced throughout. He can see several nasty looking bruises blossoming up from where Robin’s blows had landed. Robin frowns, noting that there are older, fading bruises too, as well as a split lip, that he’s pretty certain he’s _not_ responsible for.

As though answering some unheard alarm, the assassin jerks suddenly, smoothly rising to an upright position. Robin’s certain that he’s about to die—he’s still on the ground, totally unarmed. The assassin moves towards him, and Robin can’t help but close his eyes. But nothing happens. Finally, he opens his eyes to find that he’s alone on the rooftop now. Wobbling a bit from the head injury, he scrambles up, looking around, attempting to get his bearings.

He sees that the assassin’s hood was left behind, whether forgotten or intentionally, he isn’t certain. He moves to pick it up, working hard to keep his balance when he bends over. As he rises, Robin suddenly becomes aware that the alarm for the sensors is going off—has been going off for a while now, sounding off in his ear.

His blood freezes, because he realizes quite suddenly that Nightwing must have been distracted by that, probably tried to deal with it, and that might be why his older brother isn’t there yet. Cursing himself for being stupid, Robin turns and takes off, running back towards the house, praying silently for Nightwing to be alive and well, even if it means he’ll be benched forever.

Robin is going so fast that he literally collides into Nightwing, who was making his way equally swiftly in the direction the younger boy had gone earlier. For an instant, Robin thinks that it must be the other assassin, come to finish the job, so to speak. But Nightwing fortunately has his wits about him and manages to avoid several uncoordinated, desperate blows.

“Hey!” The young man says, catching hold of his brother’s wrists. “Knock it off. It’s just me.”

Sheepishly, Robin stops, relaxing slightly. “Sorry,” he mutters, not moving to get free.

Nightwing frowns, taking in the sight. “What happened to you?”

“Um…” For some reason, this seems to be a hard question. “I picked a fight with a Talon?” Robin squints at the older vigilante for a moment. “What happened to _you?”_

Grimacing, Nightwing lightly touches a nasty cut on his side. “I think I did too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely one of the most difficult stories I've done. No clue why. Maybe because it's an AU?
> 
> Munchkin updates! I wore my Court of Owls mask to the Halloween party. Or rather, I wore it out of my room, then took it off, because two out of three little ones started to cry. I'm still not forgiven. Thing #1 was less impressed, but only because he's "Duperman" and can beat me up. So much love there.


	5. Remembering How to Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This tiny Talon is good at math. He's just not as good at remembering.

_Two years, eight months, two weeks, three days, and three hours. That’s how long it’s been since he’s seen the sun. 18,264.05 hours since his last full meal. 1,095,843 minutes since he learned that death is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. 65,750,580 seconds since he stopped being anyone but Talon, an assassin for The Court of Owls._

_It’s so much less painless to just forget, to accept the circumstances and work only to survive. But that’s the problem—he_ can’t _forget. Not entirely. Some things are easy to forget: names, faces, even his own self—it’s not as though anyone_ else _remembers him either._

_He’s found that there are things that stick in one’s mind—painful things that make forgetting so much worse. Flashes of color, tastes and smells, snippets of conversation; they creep up and make everything feel muddled and agonizing again. They make it hard to just be and do; disrupting the delicate balance between who he was and the Talon he’s become, throwing him off and releasing emotions that would be better off locked away._

_There’s something about these people in bright uniforms, something that creates an aching feeling of loss. Objectively, he knows who they are—Nightwing and Robin, vigilantes who work with the Bat, enemies of The Court. Not people Talon should bother with, definitely not the sort who Talon should leave alive._

_And yet, that’s just what he did. He’s had plenty of opportunities to destroy them, even had the chance to get close enough so he could have killed the Bat. But he didn’t, even when he had every advantage. And, while every part of him that’s focused on survival—all the Talon parts of him scream for him to do the deed, the treacherous voice in the back of his mind cries just as loudly for him to stop, to make apologies, to beg for someone to have mercy and just_ kill _him, because if they don’t, The Court_ will.

_There’s familiarity in these people too—like he knew them once. Flashes of some other life fill his mind with each encounter. That’s why he was sloppy—letting himself be seen, toying with Robin. He wanted to remember, wants to know why it hurts to see these people, why they bring back the weaknesses he can’t afford._

_He_ knew _there would be consequences—when have there ever been no consequences? He’s died before, been brought back, and repeated the process all over again. In truth, it’s not even the worst thing that can be done to him. Because those moments when he’s still mostly dead, being revived again are peaceful. Memories (or are they dreams?) float through his mind, and there’s no pain or fear then. But he’ll wake up again as Talon and be right back where he’d started._

 _Logically, he_ knows _that there was a before, when he wasn’t Talon, wasn’t really_ anyone _—he’s not delusional, and he_ remembers everything. _Eidetic memory, he knows it’s called. There’s no forgetting, just repressing. He’s learned to shove it down, to bury it like a dead body, praying that it’ll rot away long before it’s rediscovered._

 _Unfortunately, memories to not decay, they only fade, like colors left in the sun. And each time he’s allowed out, every time he’s sent out to carry out a mission, they spark back up. He’s been to some of these places before. He_ knows _these people, he’s positive of that. But they’re not the ones he’ll be reporting to at the end of the day, and they’re not the ones who will make sure he pays for mistakes._

 _But, childishly, he really wishes that they were. Because every memory they pull up only tells him yet again that The Court is wrong, that what he’s_ doing _is wrong. And they wouldn’t hurt him—lock him away, yes—maybe even in Arkham. But not for any pleasure or gain, which is more than can be said for his current situation._

_This is the rebellious thought that floats through his mind with each cruel word flung at him, every time a blow connects. He’s still going to be allowed out, but only with the Talon who’s supposed to train him—William Cobb, he’s gathered from eavesdropping. The rebellious part of him would like to point out that repeatedly killing and torturing someone is not really a training method._

_But he’s sure Cobb knows that and just doesn’t care. The weak part of him is thankful that Cobb will be leading now—Cobb has little patience for mistakes, and he’ll not wait for them to be made. The assassin will handle it himself, and Talon should watch and learn from the example. Of course, Cobb has as little, if not less, love for him, so he’ll spend more time as a scout or bait than as a fully-fledged Talon. This suits him just fine, but leaves too much time for thinking. And he’s not going to sit around and be tormented by his own mind, which was why he’d purposely engaged Robin._

_Now he’s really in trouble, and regrets the decision even more. When the pain fades some, he’ll probably be pleased with himself for pushing the boundaries. Cobb is furious, so is The Court, and Talon’s pissed at the other part of himself for getting them into this mess. His job, at this instant, is to stand there, acting respectful and pretending to not mind people talking about him in front of him. Cobb is actually worse at this than he is, but he’s much better at pretending otherwise, especially when someone else is being thrown under the bus. And right now, the man is busy receiving new orders and making almost-silent threats of punishment._

_Finally, they can leave, and Talon focuses on walking. He’s tired,_ so _tired, and he’s hungry—the last fiasco had left him without food privileges, which have yet to be fully reinstated. Everything hurts right now because of this_ _latest performance, and he’s pretty sure that the pain’s just starting. But his mind keeps going back to the roof—he_ knows _who Robin is, he’s_ positive. _And he’s sure it’s important, for some reason. But the only reason he can think of right now is that The Court would be thrilled to know the vigilante’s secret identity. And there isn’t a single part of him that wants to give them that satisfaction._

 _So again, he struggles to box up these thoughts, to just let the instinct and survivor take over. Because_ he _is weak, but Talon is not. Talon is the one who has kept them alive thus far. And as long as he can remember_ that, _he’s got a much better chance of living through whatever’s about to come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked Cobb a lot in the Court of Owls arc, because he was pretty much batshit crazy, but in a rather unique way (who literally takes time in a fight to criticize a distant relative's life choices?), so he gets to be around earlier than I'd originally planned! I'll probably bring Lincoln March in soon, but not yet. 
> 
> Eidetic memory is a fascinating thing, and works a little different for each person. You learn a lot of coping skills with it, sometimes less healthy ones. And yeah, can be almost impossible to forget things, even stupid or horrible things--for instance, I can tell you exactly what I wore for my fourth Christmas, what everyone else wore, what presents I got, what we ate, and most of the conversation from that morning. You CAN repress the memories though--I know I do, and that's ALMOST like forgetting, except that when you trigger them, they're back in full force.


	6. Old Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Jason and Dick wait for proof about the young Talon's identity, they need to decide what they'll do with the information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! Whoo-hoo!

Jason’s pretty sure that he’s on borrowed time right now—Dick’s distracted, and Bruce believed his lame excuse for the injuries, so he hasn’t been grounded or even lectured, _yet._ He’s hoping that Dick will just sort of forget what he did earlier, because his older brother can be distracted pretty easily sometimes. Of course, if _Bruce_ finds out, then all bets are off and Jason should probably start worrying about whether or not he’ll be allowed to continue being Robin.

“What’s with the face?” Dick’s voice snaps him out of this depressing thought train.

“Just thinking.” Jason shrugs, looking warily at the older boy. “How’s your little experiment coming?”

“I’m waiting.”

“For?”

“I guess for the computer.” Jason says irritably. “How long does it take to run a DNA test anyway?”

Sighing, Dick gives him a look of great suffering and patience. “We’re working with a three year-old sample for reference, Jay. And it took me a while to get anything off of that hood. So forgive me if it’s taking more time than you’d like.”

Jason snorts and rolls his eyes. But he drops the attitude after that, because if he keeps it up, Dick will probably remember his threats from earlier. Instead, he opens a window on the computer and pulls up the footage from his mask earlier, fast forwarding to the end of his fight that night. The teen shoots a quick glance to ensure that his brother’s attention is elsewhere, then he selects and plays the last minute of the encounter.

Watching himself getting thrown again in first-person is just as painful as it was then, only with added embarrassment now—he can totally see where he was sloppy and it’s obvious that the pint-sized assassin had been trying to throw him exactly like that the entire time he was pinned.

As soon as the camera view is on the Talon again, Jason hits the pause button, freezing the frame. The camera quality isn’t the best, but he’s ran facial recognition programs with pictures that were almost entirely pixelated before, so this one’s a piece of cake. Right now, he knows that Dick’s just humoring him by running a DNA test—the older vigilante doesn’t seem at all convinced with Jason’s theory about the Talon being Tim Drake. But he’s hoping that between this search and the DNA, he’ll be able to prove it to Dick, if not Bruce.

Their father has very reluctantly started to come round to the idea that he was wrong about The Court of Owls. It’s been a very grudging admission, but the fact that he’s willing to listen to his sons’ theories has been uplifting for both of them. Jason is determined to convince his dad that this new-found faith has not been misplaced.

The computer chimes, indicating the program has finished running. The teen grins and opens the results. He’d been aware that there wasn’t a lot of information in the Drake murder files, but he hadn’t been aware that there were literally two pictures of their son in it, both of which had been old back when the boy disappeared. Jason had to do a lot of digging to find a picture that was only about four years old—one of those shitty school photos that parents are supposed to buy, buried away in the photography company’s databanks.

Despite the picture’s age, Jason had been pretty sure it would work—the software’s algorithm matches facial structure, including features that don’t normally change too much as someone ages. And, according to this software, there’s a 93% chance that the kid Jason fought with is indeed the same Timothy Jackson Drake who’s been missing for the past three years.

Jason does a small victory dance in the chair, grinning like an idiot—he’s right! Of course, he does try to remember that it’s a horrible thing to be happy about: instead of just being dead in a ditch somewhere, the boy’s been turned into some sort of assassin for a secret organization, and who knows how they went about _that._

The thought does bring him back to earth though, and his grin fades a little. He stares at the images on his screen, fascinated by how they are at once similar and starkly different. Nine year-old Tim has the same eyes as twelve year-old Tim, which Jason finds sorta sad. The little boy in the old photo has a small, half-smirk, half-smile that makes him look surprisingly cynical for a kid that age. Jason doesn’t even have to look at the new picture to remember what that Tim looked like—breathing hard, split lip painting his teeth red-pink.

There’s no personality to be seen in that face, just a sort of feral, desperate, fear that Jason finds so familiar from his time on the streets. A lot of kids had looked that way, Jason can recall all too well, and it pisses him off right now.

Because that expression is because of him—he pretty much beat the crap out of that kid after he’d already won the fight, if only temporarily. Because nobody had done anything to stop people from hurting him before this. Because Bruce didn’t save this kid, but he saved Jason. It’s entirely irrational, Jason knows that, but that’s what goes through his head.

Of course, then he has to think about how he’s still alive, even though the Talon totally had him. So Jason’s gotta wonder what that means—why is he still alive? Why did the assassin let him go and just run off? He’s got no idea why, but he’s hoping that this means there’s some hope for Tim Drake yet. Jason _really_ wants that.

————

Dick knows exactly what Jason’s doing, and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to do something to discourage it—Jason doesn’t need to be more involved, and he _knows_ his little brother is hoping that everyone will be too distracted to remember how close the boy had come to being killed tonight. It’s his own damn fault too—if he hadn’t been irresponsible, Jason wouldn’t have tried to chase after the assassin alone. Dick’s never going to fully forgive himself for that.

He’d been lazy and fallen asleep, and he probably would have slept through Jason’s leaving if not for the kid’s shout. But he hadn’t had time to react—less than a second after his brother’s shout, the sensor had gone off. And Dick had had to make a choice.

The Talon had been standing there, waiting for him. No one else was there, and Dick knew it was a trap as soon as he’d seen the assassin waiting. There was no choice but to fight, and Dick is willing to admit that he’d almost been happy to fight the man—he had hoped for…something. A chance to redeem himself, maybe? Despite the arguments he’d given his brother, Dick was just as convinced about the smaller Talon’s identity, and he knew that it meant he and Bruce had failed Tim Drake in so many more ways than he’d thought.

But whatever his motivations, he’d quickly realized that it wasn’t an even match—the Talon was stronger and fought to kill. With some experience in the fighting styles the assassin was using, he might have done better, but it didn’t take long for the Talon to get a chance and put a nice gash into Dick’s side. He had run, in the end, because he remembered that Jason was still out there, fighting another Talon, and if he died or was too injured to move fast, then that’d leave the kid without backup.  

But he couldn’t run anywhere now, and it was proving hard to distract himself. So Dick decided to pick on Jason just a little.

“Whatcha doin, squirt?” He asks, flopping over the top of the chair and using Jason’s head for a chin-rest.

“Get off!” Jason swats irritably. “Jerk.”

“Oh, you wound me.” Dick says dramatically. “Seriously though, what’re you up to here?”

Jason sighs. “Don’t be mad. I just wanted to try this.” He shows Dick the facial recognition program. “Thought it’d be a good idea, since DNA takes so long.”

“Huh. Smart. And the results?”

“There’s like more than a 90% chance that the Talon is Tim Drake.”

Dick hums, taking his chin off of the kid’s head. “Well, between that and the DNA, we should be able to convince Bruce of it. Good work, Jaybird.”

“What do we do now?” Jason frowns slightly. “I mean, he’s just a kid, right?”

“Yeah.” Dick sighs sadly. “I know, Jay. But it’s not that easy, you know? He did murder those people.”

“They _made_ him!” Jason protests, whirling around to face his older brother. “They murdered his parents, kidnapped him, and…and _forced_ him to _kill_ people.”

Dick closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before gently saying “We don’t know that for sure, Jace.”

“Yes we do!”

“No, we don’t. Not yet. I’m sorry, kiddo, but we can’t assume that’s the case.” He reaches forward and claps a hand on Jason’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not blaming Tim, Jay. Not yet. But we’ve learned that he will fight us, so we can’t plan anything on the idea that he’s just a kid. I want to save him just as much as you do, little brother, I swear. I’m not going to let Bruce lock him up if we _can_ catch him, not without a reason. But I’m not risking both of our lives by assuming that Tim’s an innocent in all of this. I’ll do everything I can to help him, but I’m also going to do everything I can to protect us too. Okay?”

Jason lets out a shuddery breath, then nods. “Okay.”

He lets his older brother pull him into a hug, and they stay like that for a good minute before Jason pulls away. He swipes a hand across his face, sniffling a little. Dick doesn’t comment on the gesture.

“Okay, the DNA test is probably done. So I’m gonna go check that, and then I think we’re gonna just call this a night, if that’s cool? We’re gonna have to have a better strategy before we try to go out after these guys.” Dick announces, patting his brother on the shoulder before he goes.

Jason grins weakly. “So I’m not being locked up?”

Dick tosses “Not _yet_ ,” over his shoulder. Jason scowls a little, because that’s not a really reassuring answer. Then he shuts down the computer and heads upstairs. He wants to dismiss Dick’s concerns about Tim, but he’s not sure that he can. And every time he closes his eyes, he can see the younger boy’s expression from earlier that night, staring back in fear. Jason never wants to make someone look that way again—he never wants Timothy Drake to look that way again either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the silence went so long! I had a 20 page paper due and a 15 minute presentation this week.  
> The election results have made things miserable for me--my people are insulted, as are others, and so I speak. But this entitles me to the full fury and hate of the ones talking, and my coworkers and boss do nothing to stop it. I go home crying most nights now. Work is a place I love, but now I think I'll be quitting. There is so much pain in the world now.  
> Please send me good thoughts right now, because God knows I need them. Hopefully I'll have another update posted soon. Hang in there, guys!


	7. Emotional Responses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of peace ends badly, and Dick tries desperately to salvage the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written in a while. Not as long as my last essay though, that was 20 pages on cultural discourse and its effect on the Shoshone nation. Fun, but it nearly put me to sleep.

They don’t really get to make a plan, as it turns out. Bruce takes one look at the DNA results and forbids them from going after the Talons at all. He bans them from leaving the house for two weeks, and Dick chafes under the restrictions. It’s as though Bruce forgot their original agreement—he’s gone from treating Dick like an equal to ordering him around like a little kid again.

He’s thrilled to spend time with Jason, of course, but after about three days, they’re ready to kill each other. The murders stop four days after the ban, and Bruce is pissed as hell. Jason is on edge, watching his dad carefully—the behavior is terribly familiar to him, and while he knows deep down that Bruce would never lash out at him like that, Jason’s survival instincts kick in and he’s not able to relax when the man is around.

Dick’s pretty much decided that he’s going out tonight with or without his father’s permission when the man comes into his room with no ceremony, announcing “I’ve decided to allow you and Jason out tonight.”

Biting back the sarcastic response that immediately comes to mind, Dick shrugs and says “Cool. I’m gonna guess we’re doing the shortest patrol route?”

“That’s the plan. I want you both back in the cave by two, and I want you two to stay in constant communication with me, clear?”

“Crystal.” Dick mutters drily. “Thanks.”

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement and leaves. The young man rolls his eyes at the drama of the whole thing, then sighs and stands up. He’s gonna have to let Jason know, because Bruce has likely not done so.

\----

Despite the restraints put on their activities for the night, the brothers are happy to be out in the dark Gotham night. Robin actually whoops loudly when they make the first jump between rooftops, enjoying the sensation. Nightwing can’t keep from laughing outright at the boy’s exuberance. 

“Don’t get too far ahead!” He calls after the excited teenager, who’s rapidly gaining ground. “Remember what B said.”

“Okay!” Robin laughs. “I’m not running away or anything! Hey, I’ll race you to the courthouse.”

Nightwing chuckles. “Oh, you’re on!”

They take off then, flying from building to building, feet hardly touching down at times. Robin keeps the upper-hand, taking advantage of his head-start. Nightwing goes for a higher building, using his experience with heights to even the playing field. Robin’s more inclined to use the roofs and fire escapes that he knows so well, but Nightwing was always meant to fly.

Yes, it’s not something Bruce would approve of—he’s never been a fan of playing games on patrol, but after days of being on lockdown, they both need to let loose. The young man laughs with joy as he does a flip, relishing the rush of wind in his hair. It’s good to be outside again.

He touches down on the courthouse roof, rolling to absorb the impact. Nightwing grins in triumph, jumping up and pumping his fists in the air.

“Yes! Victory is mine!” He crows, spinning around to see his little brother’s reaction.

But Robin isn’t there. Nightwing frowns, looking around for the teenager, who was right behind him last time he looked. The boy is nowhere to be found, and Nightwing looks around frantically, trying to locate the brightly clad figure who should be coming into view at any moment now. But he doesn’t.

“Hey, you get lost on your way here?” Nightwing says into the comms, using a private channel—he really doesn’t need Batman freaking out just yet. “What’s up, Robin?”

As his heart starts racing in terror, he starts to retrace his steps, still talking into the earpiece.

“Robin, come in! Dude, it’s not funny. Answer me now, dammit!”

The silence on the other end is overwhelming.

“Jason, you need to respond.” He’s urgent now, desperate to find out what’s going on. “Seriously, Jason, you either respond now, or I’m gonna open the main channel and let Bruce know.”

Just as he’s about to make good on the threat, his earpiece suddenly crackles to life.

“110 East Lincolnway. You’ve got five minutes.” It’s a stranger’s voice, rasping through the static.

Dick almost stumbles, the voice startling him completely.

“Who the hell is this?” He snarls, already inputting the coordinates and heading to the address. “Where’s Robin?”

“Four minutes.”

It’s obvious that he’s not getting anything out of the stranger, so Nightwing focuses on running. He replays the voice in his head, contemplating it—the person is male, probably an adult based on the timbre, but that’s about all he can get out of it.

Growling in frustration, Nightwing signals for Batman to pick up as he circles the building he’d been sent to.

“What happened?” Batman’s voice is already accusatory.

Nightwing grits his teeth in anger at the tone, but he needs the help too much to let it get to him. “Robin’s been taken. I’m at the location now. How long ‘til you make it? I got a time limit, and I gotta go in _now._ ”

“ETA in ten.” Batman says fiercely. “Be careful.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, focusing on the building. It’s an older building, mostly ruined, with broken windows and holes in some of the walls. Nightwing’s eyes catch movement in one window and he fixates to on it. He’s aware it’s a trap, so there’s no point in trying to sneak in. So he enters through the empty space where the glass was, and stops, taking in the situation.

Jason’s splayed out in the middle of the floor, unconscious but not visibly injured. The small Talon is sitting cross-legged next to the still form, watching Nightwing’s entry with a slightly tilted head. Without the hood on, there’s little doubt that he _is_ Tim Drake, and he’s staring unnervingly at the vigilante.

Nightwing isn’t certain what to make of this, so he steps down from the window sill cautiously, watching the boy closely. Tim bites his lip, frowning sharply, and then something connects with Dick’s shoulder, sending him stumbling to the side.

Rolling to a crouch, he turns to face what he knows is the other Talon, just in time to dodge a flying shuriken that would have hit his neck. The Talon charges, and Dick goes low, aiming for the running man’s legs.

The impact is jarring, and the Talon recovers faster, whirling around with blades flashing. He solidly connects with Dick’s shoulder, sending the smaller man stumbling. A swift kick to the middle of his back sends him falling to the ground. Dick scrambles to roll over, just in time to get a knife in his uninjured shoulder, pinning him to the floor. He jerks, trying to get free, but the weapon is lodged firmly into the wood, keeping him down.

He waits for the next blow to come, either stabbing him in the chest or down straight onto his head. But it doesn’t come—the Talon looms over him, hood masking his expression. And then the man starts to laugh, a dark sound in the otherwise silent room.

“How long before the Bat will arrive?” The assassin asks suddenly, turning to survey the rest of the room.

“Eight minutes,” the reply is soft, almost inaudible.

“Hnn. Well, I’m sure there’s something to be done in that frame.” Talon muses, turning to glance back at Dick. “And here I thought you’d be a bit of a challenge. What a disappointment.”

“Let me up and I’ll show you what I can do.” Dick growls, reaching to grab at the knife.

“Interesting offer,” the man slams his foot down on the arm, and very casually pulls out a knife. “But I think we’ll need to pass. It’s much more entertaining this way.” He suddenly throws the knife accurately, skewering Dick’s hand and pinning it to the floor.

The sudden pain causes him to cry out, and the assassin laughs cruelly. Then he pulls another knife out, and Dick’s suddenly pretty sure that he’s about to be in a lot of pain.

“Cobb!” Tim’s voice startles both men. “Enough.”

The Talon turns around, snarling “You _dare_ command me?”

“The Court gave its orders.”

“I _know_ what the Court wishes.” The man— _Cobb?—_ snaps, stalking forward until he’s staring down at the boy. “I know my place, whelp, unlike you.”

But he doesn’t throw the knife, which Dick counts as a sort of success. The man stomps around for a second, clearly impatient. Then he turns on his heel and heads for the door, snapping an order to “watch them” behind him.

Dick starts struggling again as soon as the footsteps have faded. He tosses a glance at Tim, who’s still watching, but doesn’t act like he’s concerned; then to Jason, who’s still unconscious on the floor. And then he considers his options: he can try to dislodge the blades— _can’t pull them through, because they’re hilted_ —and that would take a lot of effort to do in this position. That’s pretty much the only option if he doesn’t consider other factors, like how there’s definitely no love lost between the assassins.

“You don’t want him to kill us?” Dick ask, because he can’t think of anything else. He starts trying to wiggle the blade loose.

“Not my call,” The boy says tersely, then adds “You seem to be intent on doing it yourself.”

“’M not gonna die from this.”

“Sure.” There’s a lot of skepticism in the tone. “You try talking to him like you do and you _will.”_

Dick’s hand feels like it’s on fire. “I’m just a friendly person, sue me. Besides, _you’ve_ done all the talking so far.”

The kid shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “You’ve got 360 seconds.”

“Uh…before what?” Dick’s totally missing something.

“Batman shows up.”

“Ah. Hey, speaking of, what’d you guys do to Robin?”

“He’s fine.” And after a beat, he adds “Drugged as hell, though. Should be okay.”

That’s heartening news, and Dick feels relief flood through him. This is followed by a wave of pain, and he remembers that he needs to try and convince the boy to help him.

“Why are you helping him?”

The kid scoffs, standing up and stretching a little. “Seriously?”

Dick would shrug, but his arms are a little too sore to risk it. “Yeah. I mean, it makes some sense, but I know who you are, and that part doesn’t add up so well.”

“This is the part where you try to connect to my humanity or whatever and get me to turn on my partner, isn’t it?”

“Okay, not my best attempt at subtly. Hey, how many seconds do I have now?”

“270.” The reply is almost instant. “You’ve never been subtle. Run your mouth too much.”

“You are hands-down the most critical assassin I have ever met.” Dick rolls his eyes, trying to come up with a way to throw the boy off-guard—he’s running out of time to make friends, so he needs to start working at emotional reflexes instead. “Look, we want to help you, okay? And that’s kinda hard to do when I’m _pinned to the floor._ I know it’s a risk, but you help me, I’ll help you.”

“Uh-huh. You want to help me? Really? Normally people go the money route.”

“I’m _serious._ ”

The boy walks over and looks down at him. “So am I. I’m not dumb enough to buy your whole ‘we care’ routine. And I’m a hell of a lot more afraid of The Court than I am of Bats. So shut up,” he leans against the wall nearby, looking annoyed. “Or I’ll make you shut up.”

This is going nowhere fast, so Dick decides to just start in on the slightly more emotional black-mail tactic. “Do you remember your parents? How they died? Wasn’t it exactly the same way Stan Kitch did? Or Zubin Zucchini? That’s how Sophia Starr’s supposed to die too, isn’t it? And Samantha Vanaver? That’s how Batman’s supposed to go down tonight, isn’t it?”

“Shut. Up.” _Bingo._

“Your name is Timothy Jackson Drake, and your parents were Janet and Jack.  They were murdered two years and nine months ago, in the middle of the night.” He speaks rapidly, well aware that in an altercation right now, he’s pretty much defenseless. “There was a funeral, did you know? A memorial service for you too. But we didn’t think you were dead. Batman and I, we _looked_ for you everywhere we could think of. We didn’t forget you, Tim.”

The boy snarls suddenly, bending down and pressing a knife to Dick’s neck. “I said _shut. Up.”_

“Or what?”

Before Dick can find out just how scared he should be, the boy just as quickly jumps away, blade disappearing instantly. And then the Talon is entering the room again, clearly aggravated. Tim eyes the man warily, backing up until he’s about halfway between Dick and Jason, back against the wall.

Cobb doesn’t even acknowledge the change in position. “Open the comm channel. I’m expediting this.”

He pulls out a nasty looking blade, one that really only has one purpose—pain. Dick knows his time for talking is up. He waits for the man to come forward and crouch down, and then he lashes out. He’d been working the knife loose the entire time he’d been talking, and when he finally had gotten a reaction out of the boy, he’d used the distraction to get it loose and flip it so that he can use it.

It’s a very sharp blade, and it slams into the Talon’s chest, sliding neatly between the ribs to pierce his lung. Cobb growls, then smashes his fist into the younger man’s face. Dick’s grip loosens, and he’s slammed back to the ground—the other knife is still in his arm. The Talon’s boot slams into his chest, pushing down. Dick can feel his ribs bending from the pressure. The assassin chuckles cruelly, pulling a long, slim blade from its sheath, raising it up to strike.

“Don’t!”

For a second, nobody moves. Dick’s eyes dart from the looming weapon to the boy. Tim is still backed against the wall, one hand clapped over his mouth, as though he’s just as surprised that he spoke as they are. The pressure on Dick’s chest suddenly lifts, and he coughs, gasping for air. The Talon turns to stare down at his younger counterpart.

“You forget yourself, boy,” he says in a surprisingly calm voice. “Which, as I recall, was the reason they sent _me.”_ He punctuates the word by grabbing the boy by the neck and slamming him against the wall, pinning him there. “The Court has been lenient with you. I will not be. You do _not_ undermine me. Am I understood?”

For an instant, the boy just chokes, arms hanging limply at his sides. Then he nods jerkily.

“Good.”

Cobb drops him, turning around and striding back towards Dick. But then he pauses, and must reconsider, because he changes directions and goes over towards Jason’s unconscious form.

“Leave him alone!” Dick snarls, jerking desperately at the knife in his arm. “Don’t touch him!”

The assassin doesn’t acknowledge him, suddenly speaking out loud— _to the open comm—_ as he moves to stand over the still form.

“You should be here in about one minute, _Batman.”_ He announces coolly. “Now, since I’m tired of waiting for you, I’ve found a way to entertain myself. How many fingers can I cut off the small one without bending down?” He pauses as a static filled response comes in, unintelligible. “I’m sure the older one will let you know the score.”

He moves to swing downward, when suddenly something flashes through the air, hitting him in the bicep.

“Stop it!” Tim shouts, already throwing another shuriken. “Leave him alone.”

Cobb turns and charges in one swift motion. The blade flashes as he aims for the boy’s head. Tim moves nimbly, dodging out of the way and towards the open door. He shoots a glance over at Dick, mouthing “run”, before speeding through the opening, the Talon close behind him.

Dick finally yanks the knife free, just as Batman (finally) comes streaking in through the window. He looks at his older son, who nods, then turns his attention to the unconscious teenager on the floor.

“What happened?” He asks, checking Jason’s vital signs.

“Talons. I’m going after them, B.” Dick answers, already going out the door.

\-----

_It takes less than 30 seconds to bleed to death from most major targets. It should take Nightwing about one minute to get Robin up and out of danger. So Tim just needs to stay ahead for Cobb for two minutes. He can do that._

_He’s going to suffer for all of this. He knows just how much pain he’s about to be in, and he can imagine how much more he’ll discover soon enough. Talon is furious, but Tim’s not—he’s_ terrified. _There are fates worse than death, and The Court knows all of them._

_Cobb slams into the wall behind him, and Tim runs harder. He’s stumbling a bit, running on fumes. There’s no energy left in him, between the lack of food and the lessons he’s relearned (again), it’s desperation that keeps Tim from stopping._

_There’s nowhere left to run though—he’s reached the roof, and there’s no close buildings. He’s lasted four minutes. That’s 240 more seconds than he’d thought. That’s the longest he’s been free since this began._

_Tim chokes back a sob, turning to watch Cobb advance. He’s going to die, there’s no doubt there. The question is: how many times? He’s tried to stay dead, but there’s no death in the Court, only pain._

_Cobb laughs darkly, knowing there’s no way to escape. “Are you going to fight like a talon, or just run like a child?”_

_Hands shaking, he pulls out one of his wakizashi, knowing full well that this will end badly. Tim can die, but unless Cobb loses his head, he will not._

_The man charges, and Tim barely blocks it in time. There’s no reason to fight now. The only comfort he can find here is that he’s not been forgotten. Tim Drake isn’t going to disappear forever now, because he’s going to be remembered. Talon can forget, because_ they _won’t._

_It’s a matter of moments before the first blow lands, slicing deep into his torso. It’s painful, but not immediately life-threatening. He can push past it—that’s one of the first lessons learned: how to ignore pain._

_A sweeping kick takes out his legs, and he falls hard, unable to stop himself from hitting the ground hard. His head cracks into the cement roof, and his vision goes white. It’s pure luck when he rolls in time to avoid the sword that’s crashing down._

_He’s not fast enough to dodge the sharp kick to his kidneys. Tim rolls onto his back, gasping for air as he stares at the sky. He can sense Cobb deciding what weapon to use, but he doesn’t care. The stars are visible now._

_Scorpius was his favorite constellation as a kid. It was a beautiful one to him, so strange and different from most of the others. It was the only constellation he knew that didn’t have a specific story to go with it, and that fascinated him. It wasn’t easy to find, but Tim hadn’t ever been an “easy” kid. He can see the stars that made it up now, and he traces them with his eyes, not wanting to see Cobb._

_But the blow doesn’t come—Cobb groans and falls, and Tim looks. It’s Nightwing, and he feels his heart drop, because if he’s_ here, _that means he didn’t run, and this means Tim is going to die for nothing. Because Batman will show up, and one, if not both, vigilantes will die._

_Nightwing is still fighting, but he is unarmed, and Tim knows that there’s no way he will last if he continues to fight Cobb without trying to kill him. Already, he’s losing ground, and Cobb has an advantage. Tim struggles to his knees, trying to find a way to stop this from happening._

_Then Nightwing trips, and Tim_ moves. _Cobb will not die, but he can be stopped. Tim slams the wakizashi into the man’s back, through his heart, and out the other side. He holds it there until the man starts to fall to the side. Tim lets him fall, stumbling back from both men. Nightwing is sitting up, looking confused and then horrified as he takes in the scene._

_Tim scoots backwards until he hits a ledge. He’s terrified of what will happen now. Cobb will not be dead for long, and nowhere is safe from the Court of Owls, not for any length of time._

_Batman comes running onto the roof then, and Tim thinks about just flipping over the side of the building in a free fall. It takes centuries to build up enough of the chemicals needed to regenerate, and Tim cannot revive like Cobb, not independently. They won’t know that, and he’ll be dead for good. But he can’t move. Everything is shaking, he’s shaking apart, and now they’re both looking at him like he’s done something horrible—they don’t know Cobb isn’t dead. They think Tim is a murderer…and he_ is.

_The shaking has taken over everything, and he wraps his arms around his middle, feeling the pain screaming through his body from the cuts. His throat aches and burns—there will be fingerprint bruises there, on top of the older ones. That’s all he is now—layer upon layer of pain. He can hear them speaking, whether to him ora each other, he cannot say. It doesn’t matter though—they’re here, and Cobb won’t be gone forever. The Court will know._

_Tim shuts his eyes again, letting all the memories that have been trying to come out flow free. He can remember their names: Bruce and Dick, and Robin is Jason. He remembers the sun, and being full and safe, and he remembers the circus. He can remember the first time he knew his parents didn’t want him. He remembers_ everything. _But that’s all that’s left now—memories. Because he will die. They will all die. And he is sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for Japanese weapons. Also constellations. My friend calls me her "personal encyclopedia", because I can recall every single thing I have ever read or learned at will. I actually don't recommend it--my brain feels like it's too full of everything sometimes, like to the point where I can't sleep because I can't turn it off.


	8. Bleeding Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce hasn't been that scared in years. He also hasn't been this conflicted in years either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for slight reference to child abuse.  
> Also there's the age old problem of several characters in one scene who all use the same pronoun. So if you're confused, please understand that so am I, and I wrote the damn thing. Oh, and there's a slightly weird flashback, but I liked it, so...

Bruce is no longer certain of what he should do. It had been easy to decide when Dick signaled him—drop everything and run, because Jason was missing, somebody had _stolen_ his baby—though Jason isn’t much of a baby anymore—and it was almost definitely one or both of the assassins he’d been trying to find for the past two weeks. He’d still been a good minute out when the comm had gone off again, and that cold, slightly hoarse voice was threatening his children in a calm, matter of fact way. Bruce hadn’t been so scared in a very long time— _grim declaration that somehow Dick had disappeared from school, ransom demands, Bruce’s heart clenching in terror because this is the first time he realizes that being_ Bruce Wayne _puts his child in danger; long, agonizing wait because he can’t disappear and find his child right now, total helplessness—_ and he had moved faster than he hadn’t known was possible, praying that he can somehow break the time barrier and get there _before_ the Talon can do anything.

He’d heard the shouts about three seconds before he was in the building, a child’s voice— _not_ his _child’s voice—_ yelling for the Talon to stop. And then Bruce was in the room, heart pounding as he takes in the scene. Dick is upright, though bloody and clearly in pain, while Jason lays in a horribly still heap on the floor. The older of his sons nods, and years of working together tells him that Dick is more or less fine, so he hurries to check Jason.

Honestly, Bruce half-expects to find some sort of injury, but no, Jason’s just unconscious, likely drugged. He knows even as he asks what happened there, though he doesn’t expect Dick to just take off head-first after the people who had done this.

Bruce knew as soon as the boys had brought up the theory that it was very likely that the missing Drake boy was one of the two people they were looking for. There’s evidence to corroborate this. So when Dick races out of the room after the same people that just tried to torture his brother, Bruce knows that, whether true or not, that’s the belief Dick is acting upon.

He wants nothing more than to chase after his older son, but he can’t leave Jason alone and defenseless. So Bruce has to wait until the Batmobile arrives, until he can make sure Jason is safe, before he can try to keep his other son from serious injury.

Moving as fast as he can, he arrives to find the fight has already ended. There is a dead man, sword sticking from his back, laying in a pool of blood. Dick is moving to get off of the ground, clearly trying to process everything that just transpired. Bruce follows the young man’s gaze, taking in the _other_ person on the rooftop. He has to agree that the boy is either Tim Drake or a very close lookalike. The boy has moved as close to the far edge as he can without actually tipping off, and sits there, shaking like a leaf. There’s so much blood that Bruce isn’t sure what belongs to the child and what belongs to the dead man.

Tim makes eye contact with him, then squeezes his eyes shut, looking…resigned, maybe? Of course, before Bruce can come up with any course of action, Dick gets his voice back and the kid topples over, either unconscious or dead.

“He saved me.” Dick is saying, clearly feeling the need to defend the boy’s actions— _it’s his weapon, Bruce isn’t blind—_ before decisions can be made. “It was me or him, B.”

Bruce isn’t sure what his son is trying to do— _probably convince him not to hand the boy over to the police—_ and he’s fairly certain that Dick is a little disorientated. He doesn’t say this though, just offers a hand to help his son up. Bruce isn’t ever sure if his son is just a very readable person or if they’ve worked together long enough to make things obvious to him, but it’s clear as day what Dick will do when he’s up, so when he goes over to check the motionless child, Bruce doesn’t bother to argue.

“Maybe disarm him _before_ you do anything else,” he _does_ say.

Dick waves a hand in acknowledgement, which was expected. Bruce leaves him to it— _Dick can_ probably _handle a 12 year old trying to attack him—_ and pulls out a body bag. Bundling a body into it is never a fun task, and the size of this body does nothing to make life easier, so Bruce is covered in blood by the time he’s finished.

The blood is a strange color—almost black, definitely too dark for a human. Frowning, Bruce pulls out a vial and takes a sample for later. He stands up and hoists the bag up and over his shoulder—there’s no time for protocol right now, and the man didn’t deserve respect anyway.

“Let’s get them back to the cave.” He doesn’t look to see if Dick is following—he knows that the younger man is.

\----

The ride to the cave is intensely silent. Jason is starting to show signs of life, but hasn’t fully started to wake, and Dick wisely keeps his mouth shut and tries to keep Tim from bleeding out in the backseat. Bruce is _furious_ now.

He’s angry with both boys for being reckless, he’s angry at Dick for not being more responsible and careful, and he is _livid_ with himself for allowing the situation to make it to this point. He should have taken over when they’d first come up with the Court of Owls theory. But no, he had to be too proud to consider the possibility that he was wrong. And even if all the deaths that followed weren’t his fault, the dead man in the backseat is _definitely_ on his head, and if the small boy bleeding out in Dick’s arms dies, that’ll be on Bruce’s head too. As it is, the injuries his children suffered tonight are his fault alone.

Alfred is waiting when he pulls in, looking put-together, though Bruce can tell that his old friend is just as concerned as he is.

“Jason’s drugged but fine, Dick’s bleeding in several spots, and we brought one of the Talons back alive,” Bruce says, staving off any questions. “Barely, though. There’s a lot of blood loss.”

He pulls Jason out of the car while Alfred helps Dick get the small assassin out of the car and over to the medical bay. There’s not much to be done for Jason, other than tests to make sure there’s nothing lethal in his system and keep an eye on him, so Bruce gets the boy into clean civilian clothes and takes blood for tests. He sets Jason on one of the med bay beds, pausing for a second to look at his son and reassure himself that the teen is still breathing. Then he hurries over to the join the others.

It takes some convincing, but Bruce finally manages to get Dick to let himself be patched up and go take a quick shower. This leaves him with Alfred, one half-dead boy, and a corpse. So he settles for handing the older man tools when needed.

After a little while, Alfred sighs, and without looking up says “The main concern here is internal bleeding. As long as that doesn’t occur, we should be able to get enough blood back in him. Although…”  he frowns slightly. “I’m not entirely _sure_ that we should—there seems to be some…abnormalities with the blood.”

Bruce frowns too, leaning in to see. Alfred has stitched the injury shut where he could, and is bandaging the rest, which is still bleeding freely. Although it’s not as obvious as the dead man’s, Tim’s blood is darker than normal, and the wound actually seems to be bleeding strangely, now that Bruce is looking closer.

“It should be bleeding more aggressively,” he muses, moving to take a sample. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Mm. It _is_ possible that he’s in poorer shape than I thought, but that’s unlikely. So…yes, I suppose you’re right, Master Bruce.”

“I’ll run it through some tests. The other Talon’s blood was similar, which makes me think it may be some sort of genetic altering. Well, aside from that and this injury, how is he?”

“Two fractured ribs, several lacerations, and a lot of general bruising,” The old man reports, resuming the bandaging. “There’s a good chance he’s concussed. …There are older injuries too.”

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement—he’d expected as much, honestly. Leaving the man to finish up, he sets about testing the blood samples; Jason’s for any unknown or lethal drugs, and the Talons’ for whatever caused the abnormalities. This also gives him time to think, because he’s not sure what to do about Tim Drake—the boy’s as much of a victim as the others, but he’s also the one who murdered several people, including the corpse resting on a table nearby. Bruce isn’t sure what _should_ be done—the juvenile court will not do anything positive for this child. But at the same time, he isn’t certain that he would feel comfortable keeping Tim—he’s twelve, he can kill a full grown man, Bruce already _has_ kids to think of, and would such a thing even work legally?

\---

It’s not so much that Bruce hears the boy move as it is that he _barely_ sees motion from the corner of his eye. He’d be impressed with the stealth shown, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was being used to avoid him. Additionally, it means that he now has a potentially dangerous assassin running loose in the cave.

Grimacing, Bruce stands up, listening closely for some indication of where Tim might be headed. Finally, he hears a very faint pattering sound from near the trophy hall—the boy probably means to escape, but is disoriented. He moves silently, straining to track the movements by sound.

He steps around the giant penny, moving to block Tim’s path. The boy stops abruptly, then darts back towards the med bay. Bruce races after him, worried both that the kid might be looking for a weapon and that he’ll hurt himself further trying to evade capture. He trails behind—Tim is impressively fast for someone so injured—and he manages to keep him in his sight as they both weave through the equipment and other obstacles.

Tim stops so suddenly that Bruce almost rams into him. The man swerves and manages to catch himself without hitting the kid. He frowns, trying to figure out what caused the abrupt halt…and then he sees what Tim is staring at.

Bruce had put the body bag on an exam table, planning to perform an autopsy later on. It’s half-unzipped, showing the dead man’s face and torso, complete with the blade still in his back and protruding from the chest. Tim’s eyes are locked onto the corpse’s face, and he’s got a peculiar expression on his pale face.

“No,” He breathes softly, voice hoarse. “No, no, no.” He starts backing away, shaking his head as though in denial. “He _can’t_ be _here._ ”

The reaction is not what Bruce might have expected—the boy seems more terrified than horrified. “He’s dead, son.”

“ _No, he’s not.”_ Tim’s chest is heaving, body shaking. He’s backed up into a table, elbow bumping against the clean surgical equipment on a tray.

And before Bruce can say anything, can point out that the man isn’t breathing, he’s got a _sword_ through his heart, the boy has snatched up a scalpel and moves towards the body. The way he brandishes the instrument leaves little doubt that he’s intending to _make sure_ the man in dead. Bruce is torn between sick admiration—the boy is definitely resilient—and horror, because Tim apparently has no qualm against taking a knife to a corpse.

The man moves swiftly, catching ahold of the arm with the scalpel and pulling the boy into a sort-of hold. He’s not expecting quite so much resistance from the injured child, so Bruce isn’t certain of how he wants to subdue the thrashing boy without causing further damage.

So, because he can’t think of anything else, Bruce sits back against an empty table, pinning the flailing arms and holding the boy still in a sort of bear-hug. After a second of struggling, Tim seems to realize that he’s not getting free, and the struggling slows until he’s almost still, but not relaxed at all.

“He’s definitely dead,” Bruce says in a calm voice, hoping to soothe the boy into letting go of the blade still in his hand. “He can’t hurt you.”

The kid shakes his head violently, still breathing rapidly. “ _No,_ he isn’t. Y-you _can’t…he_ can’t stay here.”

By this point, Bruce is pretty sure Tim is hysterical, because there is no way that man is alive—Bruce checked several times. So he forgoes arguing in favor of trying to calm the boy enough that he isn’t going to hurt himself…or anyone else.

“I need you to let me have the scalpel now,” he says calmly. “Please, Tim, give me the scalpel.”

Using his name seems to catch the boy’s attention, and his grip loosens slowly. Bruce lets out a breath of relief and takes the instrument carefully. Tim shudders a little, then goes limp. The action is sudden enough where Bruce almost drops him, but he _is_ Batman, so he manages to avoid that. Unfortunately, reflexes don’t tell him what to do now.

\---

 _He’s warm. That’s the first thing he realizes, and it has to mean he’s not back at The Court, because it is_ never _warm. There’s not much in the way of heating down in the catacombs. This means it has to be somewhere else, and that’s a serious disadvantage._

_The second realization, which cements the suspicion, is that somebody has stitched him up. The Court doesn’t bother with such things: you either live and heal as best you can, or they bring you back when you don’t. But there’s the distinct pull of stitches when he inhales._

_His final realization is that he_ hurts. A lot. _He’d been dying, definitely too hurt to heal, so The Court would have just revived him then and there. But he’s not healed, so that didn’t happen, and there’s a lot of pain. So it’s definitely not anywhere he knows._

_There’s someone working nearby, but not close enough to see him. It takes serious effort to force himself into a sitting, then standing position. He unhooks the monitors carefully, pulling out the I.V. lines quickly. And then he runs._

_Of course he didn’t bother to look for an exit first, and he goes the wrong way. Then Batman (or is he just Bruce Wayne when there’s no cowl?) steps out in front of him, so he retraces his steps. There’s no way he’ll win a straight foot race right now, so he focuses on weaving between obstacles, looking for an opening. But then he sees the body._

_He’d never actually thought he’d_ killed _Cobb, being fully aware of the fact that the man would heal as soon as the blade was gone. But right now, he’s not-quite dead. And the Bats must think he_ is _dead. So they brought him back with them…to their secret headquarters (he’s_ pretty _sure that it’s under Wayne Manor, or he used to be, anyway), and when Cobb wakes up, there’ll be hell to pay._

 _So he tries to finish it. A scalpel isn’t ideal, but he’s confident that he can make it work—he just needs to take Cobb’s head off. But Batman stops him, and there’s no way of getting free right now. He’s probably torn out a few stitches and his muscles ache, but there’s still instinct. Right now, he_ needs _to get free, and he_ needs _to_ kill _Cobb. And so he fights and squirms and struggles, because he is_ not _going to wait for Cobb to wake up, and he’s_ definitely not _going to be trapped like this by_ anyone.

 _Only it doesn’t work that way—he’s too small and weak and has no advantages. Gradually, he notices that Batman has been talking this whole time, probably trying to get him to stop freaking out. And then the man asks for the scalpel…and he gives it up…because the man uses his name…and before tonight, no one’s called him by name in, well,_ years.

 _He knows that this means_ something, _but he doesn’t know what yet. In his head, Talon argues that they need to keep moving, not showing weakness, because they need to survive, and it’s dangerous to let your guard down at all. Despite the thoughts of self-preservation (or maybe because of them), he stops fighting altogether, no longer forcing himself to move or fight, because it all means something. Tim just needs to figure out what that is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy U.S. Thanksgiving, I guess. I wrote this during the insane drive we took to visit family one state over. This drive included a four hour delay when we got stuck in a snow storm and couldn't go forward or turn back. We ended up having a snowball fight in the middle of i80, because that's what you when it's snowing and you're stuck. So if things don't make too much sense, I'm sorry now. I'll probably edit more later on, after getting home.


	9. He's Only Mostly Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick needs to think things through more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline note: Barbara Gordon is still Batgirl at this time. Just for reference later.

Dick has a sick sort of amusement about Bruce’s obvious agitation and confusion over the interaction he’d had about an hour ago with Tim— _how the hell was that kid even upright?_ Though he is a little worried at how much of a loss Bruce seems to be at.

He’d taken a shower and come back to sit with Jason for a little while, but he fell asleep and only woke up at the very end of the whole thing, disoriented and a little confused by the situation. He hadn’t had any real arguments for Bruce’s solution of temporarily using one of the glass containment units to keep track of Tim—he’d suggested they just give the boy something to sleep, but neither Bruce nor Tim had been overly thrilled with the suggestion. So Dick shrugged and worked on waking up while they figured that out.

It’d taken Bruce about forty minutes to explain exactly what happened and for Dick to fully understand it— _Bruce does_ not _explain well sometimes._ So now he was watching as Bruce alternates between going over blood tests and half-complaining-half-musing over what to do now. It’s an entertaining thing, especially when Bruce attempted just talking to the boy outright—he was either really out of practice in dealing with kids, or he was really shaken. Dick’s willing to bet on it being the latter, although he will admit that it’s been a while since Bruce had to deal with kids—Jason was a lot older now, and generally Nightwing or Robin had better responses from little kids, so they were the ones who did that stuff these days. Regardless, it hadn't gone well.

“He’s _dead,_ Dick. I mean, you do agree with me there?” Bruce is frowning at something on the screen, and Dick isn’t sure if the question is rhetorical.

“Sure looks like it.” Then, just in case, he asks “Did you check for a pulse?”

“Yes.” The man sounds annoyed. “I did. That was the first thing I checked. Damn this computer! It shouldn’t take an hour to run a full diagnostic!”

Dick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “Whose results are on the screen?”

“Jason’s. I swear, this machine is ridiculous. The results are normal, by the way. It’s just a heavy dose of sedative, thank God. He’ll wake up in maybe an hour with a headache.”

“Heh. Tim mentioned that too—I take it that it’ll be a bad one if everyone keeps bringing it up. So we know Jay’s not dying any time soon from this. That’s good.”

Bruce grunts. “It’s the rest of the results that are taking forever. Thus far, everything came back as either normal or ‘unknown substance’, which shouldn’t happen—the program _should_ be able to access any chemical makeup from another source and cross-reference it. There shouldn’t be _any_ unknown substances.” He sighs and massages his temples. “You’d _think_ that if he was going to mention that Jason would have a headache, he could have just _told_ me what exactly was going to cause it.”

“He’s twelve. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t like you. Who knows?” Dick shrugs. “You actually asked him? That doesn’t seem like something _you_ would do typically.”

“There’s nothing typical about the situation.” Bruce snaps, jabbing fiercely at several keys. “Damnit. I don’t want to perform an autopsy without knowing what I might be dealing with.”

They both stop, thinking about the quickly fading chance to examine the corpse—bodies _have_ an expiration date.

“Well, if your super-program there keeps coming up with nothing, we might have to. Don’t suppose you tried asking about that?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m getting the silent treatment.” Bruce replies drily, glancing in the direction of the containment unit.

From this vantage point, they have a clear view of the unit and its occupant. Tim has ignored the bed in favor of sitting against the farthest part of the wall— _there are no corners in a round prison—_ and is watching them sullenly. Every now and then, he shoots a quick look over in the direction of the medical bay, but otherwise seems content to glare at the duo.

“Well, he seems pissed. What’d you do?” Dick finds this particularly amusing—the boy really doesn’t pull off disgruntled well and looks more like a grumpy, half-drowned kitten. “I mean, besides lock him up in a glass cage?”

“I’m not sure.” Bruce frowns at Dick’s tone, not appreciating the lack of sympathy. “You do realize that there’s nothing funny here, right?”

Grinning, Dick peers at the computer screen to skim the results himself. “Sure. So what’s your plan? I mean, the one for this blood test situation, not whatever we’re gonna do about the bitty assassin.”

“Well, since he’s not talking to me, and you seem to be highly entertained with the whole thing, _you_ are going to try asking for the information, and _I_ am going to put your brother to bed while you do that. There’s no need for him to spend the night down here with the rest of us.”

Dick groans, but he’d honestly expected as much. “Great. Leave me without back-up, why don’t you?”

Bruce doesn’t stop walking away, though he does respond in a light tone. “If either of us felt that much concern was warranted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’ll be back. Try not to do anything stupid in the meantime.”

He moves out of speaking distance, and Dick doesn’t want to shout a sarcastic “Like what?” after the man, so he lets it go. Of course, now he’s left with the very real dilemma of what to actually do. Just because Tim doesn’t— _didn’t_ want to kill him, it doesn’t mean he’ll want to be friends now. Not that Dick can really blame him—he probably wouldn’t be too friendly if he’d almost gotten killed helping somebody, and then those same people locked him up “for his own safety”…and then expected him to cooperate.

Dick stalls for a good five minutes, meandering over to the well-stocked mini-fridge for a sports drink. After a moment of consideration, he snags an extra drink, trying to pick one of the “better” flavors— _why does everything have to be healthy? A can of soda won’t kill us._ Then he manages to make a one minute walk take nearly three before he’s even _close_ to the unit. It takes him a second to remember how to turn the two-way speaker on—they haven’t used the things for any serious purpose since Dick was, like, sixteen. Finally he figures that out, not appreciating the silent judgement he can literally _feel_ coming from the other side of the glass.

“I’m not the computer person here, okay,” he justifies, leaning back against the railing so that he’s facing the opposition. “I know how to use ‘em, they’re just not my _thing._ And those controls are a pain.”

“The black button to the left opens the hatch, the middle one makes this thing…deactivate? Also, that upper right one cuts off the oxygen.” Apparently, Tim either paid _a lot_ of attention when Bruce locked him in there or he’s just very good at guessing. “Do you always stall that long?”

“Only on special occasions,” Dick replies smoothly. “And I _think_ the term is ‘retract’. Don’t quote me on that one though.”

He doesn’t get a response— _good to know that he’s the only one trying to carry the conversation here._

“Want something to drink?”

Slight nod back— _progress!_

“Cool. So, there’s two ways to play this.” Trying to remember the exact combination, Dick pushes off the barrier and walks over to the controls again. “A, I open the thing enough to slide stuff under it like this is a legit prison cell, or b,” he taps one button, and is pleased to see that it _does_ activate the hatch. “I open the door and you don’t try to run _or_ kill me. Pick one.”

“I don’t care. And I wouldn’t ‘try’ to kill anyone. Either I _would_ or I _wouldn’t._ You’re kind of an ass.”

Since Dick’s now managed to elicit the same expression that had been aimed at Bruce earlier, he figures he might as well just go for it and open the door. Besides, there’s something that always bugs him about talking to people through a wall, unless they’re definitely enemies. So he shrugs and walks in. But, because Dick isn’t stupid _and_ he can remember exactly how Jason reacted to being approached when he was new to the household— _he has_ scars _from that first encounter—_ he still stops a good two feet away and holds up a bottle.

“Catch.” He tosses it lightly, and Tim catches it, fumbling a little— _blood loss finally kicking in?_

Dick sits down cross-legged and opens his bottle, watching the kid out of the corner of one eye. He takes back the earlier cat comparison after a second or two _—kid’s too twitchy to be a cat, so maybe a sparrow? He’s small enough for that._ He grins a little at the idea.

“What?”

Dick jumps at the unexpected question-- _damn, he's tired_. “Um…what ‘what’?”

“What. Do. You. Want?” Tim enunciates very slowly, like he doubts the young man’s mental capacity. “You don’t get something for nothing, so there’s a reason you’re being _nice._ What?” _Of course, it’s also a good attitude to hide fear behind._

“I’m supposed to find out if you know what’s in your blood.” Dick admits, rolling the bottle between his palms. “Although I’ve been told that I’m just a nice person before. So…”

Tim scoffs— _or is it a choked laugh?—_ and looks bemused.

Dick gives him a faux-serious expression. “No, _really._ Granted, most of those people were old ladies, but still. It was said. Heck, even my _little brother_ said that I was, and I quote, ‘not a total jerk sometimes’, so there’s gotta be some truth there.”

“There’s a difference between ‘personable’ and ‘nice’, you know.” Tim is wearing one of the most dubious expressions Dick has _ever_ seen on anyone under thirty. “’Friendly’ doesn’t always equate ‘invested’. And I’m not an old lady _or_ Jason.”

Whether he meant to or not, the boy has just answered one of the many questions Bruce and Dick have had since the whole thing began—was there any possibility that a then-ten year old could have known their secret identities.

“Okay, hang on a second.” Dick should probably be more concerned right now. “So you know all our names, huh?”

“…Yeah. ‘cept for maybe Batgirl.”

“Please tell me you figured this all out on your own.”

“Uh-huh.” Tim shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Not like I wanted anyone else to know.”

“How old were you?” _Okay, he should_ really _be more concerned._

“Nine?” Tim looks a little wary and like he’s concerned for Dick’s mental state—probably because he still isn’t certain if he’ll be in trouble for the knowledge. “I didn’t tell anyone though.”

Dick can’t keep from laughing outright over the entire thing. There are powerful people who’d pay a fortune for the secret identity of Batman and plenty of people who’ve tried to find it and failed. But somehow a nine year old figured it out on his own. _Bruce is going to be pissed. Also impressed. But pissed._

“That’s why you can’t have Cobb here, you know.” Tim is still staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Because he’s gonna figure it out too—he’s _not_ stupid. Bruce Wayne’s already marked and noted, do you _really_ think it’d be hard for them to find a way in here? Especially when they learn that they’d also be getting to Batman?”

 _Way to kill the mood._ “Okay, I see your point.” Dick tries to think of something to say that doesn’t include “but the guy is _dead”,_ since that tactic definitely didn’t win any favor last time. “Um, would you mind _explaining_ exactly _how_ a seemingly-dead man is going to figure anything out?”

“He’s. Not. Dead.” Tim snaps exasperatedly. “Not permanently. His heart can’t do anything with a knife in it. But he’s _not dead._ You take that out and he’s gonna have a pulse in _maybe_ thirty seconds. It’s a temporary measure—body needs pumping fluids to function, that’s all.”

“O-kay…” Dick _really_ wants to crack a zombie joke. And also shake the kid until he stops insisting that the dead can rise, even if it _is_ true. “How’s his heart gonna pump anything? It’s sorta got a giant hole in it right now?”

The boy chews his lip, staying silent for a long moment. “The blood. It’s weird, yeah? The Court pumps all sorts of crap into their Talons. Makes ‘em _better—_ faster, stronger, whatever. Keeps you from dying eventually. You heal. Die and come back—serve The Court eternally, only the best of the best though. No need to keep a shitty servant, right? ‘Sides, it takes _years_ to get there—that’s how they’ll know you’re the best. ‘Cuz you’re still alive and sane. Well, _lucid,_ I guess.”

Dick blinks rapidly, trying to sort through and absorb the whole speech. “Wow. That’s…dark. Um…any idea _what_ they use?” Head shake no. “Awesome. So…if I went and took that blade out…how do we keep him from waking up all the way? Can we sedate him?”

“You should _kill him now._ Trust me. He doesn’t deserve to keep going. It’s doing the world a favor. He’s not even _really_ alive anymore!” Tim stares at him intently for a minute, then sighs in defeat. “He’s still human. Sort of. Just pump him full of it—he won’t die. You can’t overdose him, so knock him out and hope he doesn’t wake up.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Dick says, standing up. “You gonna try to do anything stupid if I let you out? I’m a little low on backup, y’know, just in case.”

“Uh-uh.”

Dick’s willing to take this at face value—he’s a little concerned over whether he and Tim have the same definitions of “something stupid”, but there’s not much to do about that. Besides, if the asshole turns out to somehow _not_ be dead and wakes up faster than Dick expects, he’ll need all the help he can get right now. _Bruce is gonna be_ furious. _Please be un-dead…okay, not really._

The two stop and stare at the corpse, surveying the scene silently. Tim looks like he wants to bolt, but doesn’t look _ready_ to run, so Dick’s pretending not to notice. He’s a little busy trying to think of the best way to do this anyway. Finally, he settles on getting an I.V. with sedatives hooked up and ready to go. After a second more of consideration, he decides to drag— _kid’s too small to be any help—_ the body to a table with restraints, then get the I.V. working and attached to the guy. It’s not really easy to do—pumping blood does have a huge impact on veins, but it’s eventually accomplished.

“Okay.” Dick announces, trying to not be nervous— _nothing’s gonna happen_. “So, what we’re gonna do here is I’m taking the knife out, then we need to roll him over and strap him down real fast. Got it?”

He gets a nod, so there’s nothing left to do but grab hold of the blood-caked hilt and yank it out of the man’s back. Dick’s a little impressed with the force it takes to get the blade out, but also disturbed by that. He sets the weapon aside, then helps roll the man onto his back and strap him down. The entire time, he half expects for the man to suddenly sit up or grab him or something horror-filmesque like that. But nothing happens, and it really looks like they’ve just strapped down and sedated a corpse.

Dick _really_ wants to call it a day, but he’s invested now. So he leans in and checks for a pulse. At first, he doesn’t feel anything. And then he thinks he must be imagining it. But there _is_ a pulse, barely detectable at first, but quickly growing stronger.

“Holy fu—“ Dick takes a good step back from the guy, checking the I.V. with a sudden urgency. “Is this thing gonna work?”

Tim shrugs, looking thoroughly unhappy with the situation. “I don’t know. You said you knew what you were doing.”

“Um…I just _implied_ that. I mean, I know how to sedate _normal people._ There’s nothing normal about…” he gestures to the setup vaguely. “ _This.”_

The man’s definitely alive now—his chest is rising and falling. Dick is really beginning to regret just about every decision he’s made in the past ten minutes. As the no-longer-dead man’s fingers start twitching, Dick _very gingerly_ grabs Tim by the arm and maneuvers them both back and out of striking distance. The boy’s eyes are ridiculously wide, his breathing shallow and rapid, and now Dick’s worried that the kid’s gonna have a full-blown panic attack right now. _At least he's not fighting though._

“Okay.” Dick breathes, before trialing off, because he has _no idea of what to do._ “Um…Okay, maybe we’re out of our depth here. I’m not sure that we got the dosage right…Those restraints should hold for a bit though, right? We’re just gonna…y’know, I bet Alfred would have a clue…”

He stops trying to talk and starts _doing,_ because Dick is at his best when he’s moving. He’s still got a _very_ loose grip on Tim’s wrist, so he pulls the boy along behind him, heading for the base of the stairs. He’s got no doubt that shouting for Alfred will probably produce the man almost magically—it’s a theory that has been tested over _years_ of living here. So he shouts “Alfred!” without any preamble or explanation, because that’s the quickest way to get a response.

They stand there and watch the revived man breath, waiting for something to happen. Dick’s really starting to wish he’d thought that part of the plan out a bit more. Of course, he hadn’t _really_ believed the whole “he’s not dead” thing, so there’d been no need to plan thoroughly.

“Okay, this was probably a mistake.” Dick admits, still eyeing the situation. “Um…sorry we didn’t, ah…believe you.”

“Uh-huh.” Tim looks around skittishly, trying to think of something strategically advantageous. “If he gets free, can I kill him?”

“Uh…y’know, I’m gonna go with ‘yeah’, because he’s probably going to kill us if he gets the chance.”

There’s a quiet “ahem” from the stairs, and Dick’s never been so glad to hear the disapproving noise before. “Alfred, hi! We reanimated a dead assassin, and I didn’t really think it’d work, so we sedated him, only I don’t know how that would work with a not-dead dead guy and he may or may not have woken up.”

To his credit, Alfred doesn’t stop for details or to ask questions, just raises an eyebrow and moves quickly towards the medical bay, the other two in tow. They reach the setup—Cobb hasn’t woken up fully, although he’s definitely headed that way. Alfred sighs and sets about fixing the situation.

“Well, you’ve got the right idea, trying to sedate him,” The man comments drily, surveying the I.V. “But the dosage seems to be off quite a bit. I’m assuming we’re looking at something similar to accelerated cellular regeneration. How quickly does he typically heal, approximately?” This last question is directed at Tim.

“It takes 4 seconds for his heart to restart, and he’s normally conscious again in 8.3 seconds, sometimes less. His body regenerates cells at about .25 seconds depending on the damage,” the boy replies almost instantly. “Given the reaction thus far, I’d say he’s probably going a little slower, so…maybe .5 seconds? I’m not sure what the drug’s effectiveness is, or the rate of interaction, so that’s as close as I’ve got.”

Alfred nods approvingly, already picking out the appropriate drugs. Dick’s impressed by that, although he’d _really_ like to have a step-by-step explanation from Alfred— _you never know when a zombie will need sedation—_ and he’d also like to know how Tim can come up with statistics like those so fast. The sound of someone— _Bruce—_ coming down the stairs keeps him from asking any questions out loud.

“What did you do?” Bruce sounds less than pleased.

“Well…” The thing is that Dick doesn’t really have an answer. “Uh, turns out he’s _not_ dead. And I may have not thought things through here, so we’re fixing that. Oh, and I let Tim out, because I figured that it’d probably be a good idea to have backup.”

“And you didn’t think to notify me first?”

“Yeah, I didn’t actually believe anything would happen. And I’m an _adult who can make decisions._ So…”

Bruce gives him a severe look, but doesn’t press further. He walks over to take a closer look at the scene. Alfred gives him a measured glance, as though to say “it’s under control”, before focusing once more on double checking the unconscious man’s vitals. There’s no question now—Cobb is definitely _not dead._ Frowning in puzzlement, Bruce turns back to look at the two responsible for this.

“Explain.”

Dick glances at Tim, who looks really pale and like he’s going to vomit or pass out or something. _No help there_.

“It has to do with the blood,” the young man states, still eyeing the kid—he _really_ doesn’t want to be puked on. “It causes regeneration. I’m guessing that the tests aren’t looking at complex chemical combinations, which is why we haven’t found what it is yet. Probably’ll show up in the latest one you were running. Dude, sit down before you fall down.”

That last bit was directed at Tim, who was practically swaying on his feet. For a second, he looks like he’s going to protest, but Dick nods in the direction of a chair and nudges the kid in that direction. Impressively, the boy manages to make sitting look like an act of rebellion, although it’s obvious that he’s relieved to be off his feet.

Alfred raises an eyebrow at the interaction, then speaks before anyone else can.

“Now this is why it’s ill-advised to refuse medical treatment. It’s also why we have the technology to make healing a less-strenuous activity. Of course, I shouldn’t have to remind anyone of this,” he frowns at Bruce, then Dick. “They should know that one needs one’s rest after injuries.” And now he looks at Tim severely. “I imagine you’d like to avoid more needles?”

The boy nods, clearly not going to argue with the stern tone.

“Fine. Then you’ll kindly allow me to get you something to eat and then you’ll agree to some rest.” It’s not a request.

Meeting no resistance to the order, Alfred starts ushering the boy towards the stairs. He sends one more pointed glance at Bruce and Dick—he’s making an executive decision, and those two should have been more responsible so he didn’t have to do so. Neither of them try to argue with the disapproving butler, and remain silent until they’re certain the older man cannot hear them.

“Well, that went well,” Dick mutters, fiddling with one of his own bandages. “I thought he’d do a bit more lecturing.”

Bruce grunts in agreement and heads towards the computer. “I don’t appreciate the two of you tag-teaming me. We’ve got no idea whether the boy’s a threat or not. And now there’s an assassin upstairs. You do realize the security implications alone, right?”

“Yep. I _can_ safely say that he already knew who we were, if that’s any consolation.”

“It’s really not.”

Dick shrugs and winces at the pain it sends through his shoulders—the meds are wearing off. “Well, I doubt Alfred’ll let him get into anything. Besides, we _do have_ rooms with surveillance. _And_ we’ve got a few safe rooms. He’s not gonna get out of there easily.” Bruce doesn’t reply, so he continues. “I don’t think he’s a real threat though, B. Seems more like a screwed-up, scared little kid, if you ask me. Granted, one who could probably kill us all, but still. Now, if you’re cool being down here with the zombie-man alone, I’m gonna head to bed myself. Don’t want the continuation of Alfred’s lecture, after all.”

“He’s not a zombie.” Bruce sounds annoyed and tired. “For the love of God, Dick, _please_ don’t start that nonsense. And definitely _don’t_ tell Jason that he is one. I’m really not in the mood for that. _Again.”_

The younger man snickers, but waves a hand in acknowledgement. “Okay, fine. Let me know if you need anything later, okay? The not-zombie isn’t a fun guy to fight with, trust me.”

Bruce nods. “Fine. Kindly ask if Alfred would bring me some coffee on your way up. I get the feeling I’ll need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really fudged the science here, because the actual concept and theories of accelerated regeneration are actually kinda boring. And it's not like there's any real canon-science either.  
> No Tim POV right now, because reasons. Also, I hope the dialogue flows well. I'm a little out of it, so everything makes sense to me!  
> There probably won't be any updates for about two weeks, because it's time for final exams and I'm under the gun. You never know, maybe I'll still update. But no real promises, sorry.


	10. Devil's in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason feels like he's missed out on something. There's a zombie (well, Bruce says it's not) in the basement, there's an assassin upstairs, and nobody wants to tell him anything!

_It’s really obvious that he’s still being “confined for your own good”. It’s just a nicer cage than before, with opaque walls and carpets instead of glass and cement. It’s a big upgrade from the cell he’d been sleeping in for the past two years though—dry and warm (there’s even a thermostat, which he’s turned up all the way) and meant to look like a bedroom, not a prison. It’s not Arkham, so that’s already a big step up from what he’d expected to happen now._

_There’s a long list of those things though—nobody’s decided to just drug him up (it’d be much easier than this), the old man (is he supposed to call him “Mr. Pennyworth” or something?) gave him a sandwich (even asked what kind he wanted), and then pajamas. Right now, the pajamas are the strangest part—he hasn’t had pajamas since_ that _night. It’s a strange feeling, like the ability to take as long a shower as he wants (841 seconds with the water so hot it steams up the room). He feels sort of disoriented, like he’s in the Twilight Zone (he wonders if that show still airs now), though this might also be from the general blood loss and concussion._

 _He’s pretty sure it’s morning by now, like, sun-up morning. There’s no windows or clock in here, and he probably slept for about three hours. Tim has gotten pretty good at guessing time without indicators, since The Court doesn’t_ do _clocks and he wasn’t allowed above ground until two months ago. So he figures it’s about 9 o’clock or thereabouts. Of course, it doesn’t really matter, since Tim can’t actually go anywhere until someone lets him out—the door is voice-activated and has a biometric scanner, so he’s not getting out of here anytime soon. That's okay. Tim can wait, he’s good at waiting._

_\---_

“I can’t believe you guys didn’t even try to wake me up!” Jason is in a funk. “There’s a zombie in the basement, and you didn’t even _try_ to make sure I could see! What is _wrong_ with you?”

Bruce has a serious headache—he hasn’t slept in over 24 hours and the caffeine has worn off. He glances desperately at Dick, who shrugs unsympathetically.

“He’s not a zombie, Jason. And there wasn’t anything _to see.”_ He wonders if there’s any way to stop his kid from talking for a few hours. “Besides, you needed the sleep. Believe me, I wish I’d gotten some, kid. Just…why don’t you see if Alfred wants any help?”

Dick snorts into his coffee mug, but keeps his mouth shut. Jason stomps away from the table, muttering something about “unfair rules”. Bruce sighs and seriously wonders why teenagers can’t come with off buttons.

Jason stomps into the kitchen, feeling really pissed off. He has a headache, he missed the zombie, and nobody will tell him anything about what happened last night, besides the fact that a, Bruce was pissed because Alfred decided to put Tim upstairs instead of leaving him in the cave, and b, the Talon downstairs had been dead and now he wasn’t. Jason really doesn’t understand what happened, and he wishes someone would just tell him.

Alfred raises an eyebrow at the entrance, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?” Jason asks, leaning against a counter.

“What is it you need to know so desperately?” Alfred responds, focusing on the vegetables he’s chopping. “And Master Jason, please put your dirty dishes in the sink before you go about your day.”

“What’d I miss? And I’m _gonna_ , jeez.”

The older man smiles slightly. “Well, you missed your father attempting diplomacy, Master Dick actually succeeding at it, and my cleaning up the mess they all made.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks for the vague answer. So helpful. Somebody died?”

“Nobody is dead. Would you be willing to do me a favor?” Jason nods eagerly. “Wonderful. Would you kindly check on young Timothy? I imagine he’s awake and wanting something to eat by now.”

Jason frowns slightly. “Um…you sure Dad’ll be okay with that?”

“I’ll deal with it. He’s in the safe room by the library. Do you remember how to get in?”

“Yup!”

Since Jason totally trusts Alfred to take care of any problems with Bruce, he heads upstairs, taking them two at a time. Actually, he’s really happy to get the chance to check on the kid, both because he wants the chance to see for himself that Tim is actually okay, and also because he sorta thinks he _might_ be able to get some more details out of the younger boy.

He stops for a second outside the door, suddenly thinking of everything that can go wrong with this—he’s upstairs, alone, and supposed to be checking on a pint-sized assassin who’s just spent the night locked in a strange room. _Yeah, nothing could_ possibly _go wrong with this._ After a second, he shakes it off, knocks on the door softly (because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?), then carefully opens it.

It takes Jason a good minute to spot Tim—the kid’s stuffed himself in between the bookshelf and the far wall. It’s a good position to watch the door, but it’s also a really weird spot to be. And since he’s tiny, it’s extra hard to spot the kid; it’s only because he’s wrapped up in a blanket that Jason even sees him.

Tim jumps slightly when the door opens, and he watches Jason warily. Apparently, Jason’s not that much of a threat yet, because the kid doesn’t actually move, he just shifts a little and tugs the blanket in tighter. Of course, now Jason has no idea what to do besides the fact that he’s supposed to get the kid downstairs— _probably._

“Hey, um…Alfred sent me to see if you wanted breakfast.” It occurs to Jason then that Tim probably has no idea who he’s talking about. “Uh, Alfred’s the butler. Old British dude. Cooks amazing food.”

“I _know_ who Alfred is.”

Jason winces a little at how hoarse the kid’s voice is. “Dude, you need a drink of water or something?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay. Well, uh…you hungry?”

Tim considers, then nods.

“Cool. So…you wanna come on then? Alfred made these scones, and they’re _really_ good.”

The boy starts to stand up, still wrapped in the blanket.

“We can grab a jacket on the way," Jason offers, noting the trailing fabric.

He doesn’t get a protest, so he shrugs and heads back down the hall, checking to make sure that the younger boy is following. They make progress very slowly, because Tim keeps tripping over the edge of his blanket. Jason wants to laugh, but at the same time he gets it—the blanket is more than just warmth, it’s also a sort of protective layer that makes the world a softer, less immediate space. He’s been there.

“We’re definitely gonna stop by my room, so we can grab you a hoodie or something. You’re gonna break your neck going down the stairs in that blanket.” Jason says, reaching a hand out to keep the kid from falling face first. “Dude, you okay there?”

“’M stomach hurts.”

“Oh. You’re not gonna puke, right?” Jason _really_ doesn’t want to deal with _that._

“No,” Tim mutters, adjusting the blanket. “Don’t think so.”

Jason’s not so convinced. “Sure.”

“’M _not._ Just a little dizzy’s all.”

“Okay…” He drops it, then opens the door to his room. “So this is my room! Um…just...uh, sit over there for a second. I know there’s a sweatshirt here somewhere…” He looks around for a jacket that’s not too dirty, chattering mindlessly. “I dunno how good any of my stuff’ll fit you. You’re kinda a shrimp.” Jason glances over at the kid, wincing a little at the sight of the fading bruises he’d inflicted earlier. “Y’know, I’m really sorry about that.” He gestures to his own face. “I really didn’t mean to…uh…”

“Yes you did.” Tim looks annoyed. “You did, it’s cool. I mean, I _did_ attack you first. ‘Sides, I’ve had worse. Your left hook is pretty sucky.”

“Okay, that’s unnecessary. I didn’t do that too?” Jason indicates the bruises on the younger boy’s neck. “I mean, I don’t remember it.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t you. You only gave me the split lip and, like, these three bruises. There’s a sweatshirt on the back of your chair, you know.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, put that one on then. Uh, do you want some socks?”

Tim is in the process of trying to pull the sweatshirt over his head without pulling the stitches. He stops to look down at his bare feet, suddenly realizing that they’re freezing. “Yes please.”

“Okay. What happened to your stomach? I can see the bandages—that shirt’s too big, you know. It keeps slipping off your shoulder.”

“Cobb.”

Jason frowns in confusion. “You do know that I have no idea what the fuck that is, right?”

“The other Talon, his name is William Cobb. We fought, I didn’t move fast enough. Looks worse than it is.” This statement would be more convincing if he didn’t grimace a little when he moved. “Stitches suck though.”

“That they do. Here, put these ones on. So, did that happen last night? Nobody wants to tell me what happened.”

“Um, yeah. Uh, you were drugged. Sorry.” Tim shrugs apologetically, struggling with one of the socks. “Dick got stabbed a few times. Um…I stabbed Cobb in the heart…after he got me in the side. And, uh…yeah, he’s not dead. But nobody would believe me. Only now they do, cuz he’s just drugged and not dead anymore.”

Jason stares, trying to decipher everything. “Okaaay…well, that sorta helps. All Dick would tell me was that there was a dead guy who wasn’t dead in the cave and I’m not allowed down there. And the last thing I remembered was _somebody_ hitting me from behind and stabbing me with a syringe.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Okay then," Jason shrugs, because that really wasn't what he'd been thinking. "Glad we cleared that up. Just leave the blanket there, Alfred’ll pick it up later, or I will. Come on.”

They head back out into the hall and start downstairs. Tim’s still a little wobbly, which Jason figures is actually more from blood loss than anything, so he goes slowly. Of course, he also thinks that it may be an act—kids don’t survive in bad places if they’re weak or unable to push through pain. Jason _knows_ this, but he isn’t gonna be the one to push Tim to prove it. He’s not stupid—he _barely_ won their last fight, there’s no way he’s doing that again.

When they enter the dining room, Jason’s surprised to see that Bruce isn’t there anymore. Dick looks up from his phone and smirks slightly at the confused expression on the boy’s face.

“He went to bed. Well, Alfred sorta _made_ him, but yeah. Um, Alfred left you some breakfast, Tim, and he said you’re supposed to take those pills there too,” he indicates the medicine. “It’s painkillers. They’re not supposed to knock you out or anything, so…” Dick shrugs and trails off, then grins at Jason. “Alfred said to make sure you clear your plate. And also that you need to pick up your room later today.”

“Yes, _mom.”_ Jason snaps, but he grabs his plate and heads to the kitchen.

By the time he comes back, Tim’s sitting at the table, picking at his food. Dick’s gone back to his phone, though Jason can tell from his brother’s posture that he’s not actually ignoring Tim. Jason flops down on into an empty chair, eliciting a frown from Dick and barely a glance from Tim. And because he really doesn’t appreciate Dick acting all judg-y, Jason quietly flips him the bird. Dick snorts, but doesn’t react other than that. 

Tim eats about half a scone, then proceeds to push the pills around on the table, clearly trying to stall. He eyes the round, white tablets suspiciously.

“It’s Tylenol.” Dick comments suddenly, sounding amused. “Seriously, it’s _just_ Tylenol, I swear. Like, the extra-strength kind, but still. We’re not actually out to drug you, Tim.”

“You drugged the freaking Batman, no problem.” Tim points out, still looking at the medicine.

“True, but you’re not a ridiculously stubborn, full-grown man who dresses up as a bat at night and _never_ sleeps. And we generally try to avoid drugging kids, as a rule.”

Looking less than convinced, Tim swallows the pills, staring intently at Dick, like he’s the one to be held responsible for any deception. Dick smiles wryly, but doesn’t seem to mind too much. Jason snickers at the whole thing, enjoying the standoff—Dick being intimidated by someone under five feet tall is a new thing— _we need to keep him, ‘cuz we’ll have Dick outnumbered then!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter looks so short, but it's actually a lot of words! Go figure. Anywho, let me know what you think! This chapter kinda bothers me.  
> So, finals fast approach, munchkin #3 is biting (why God???), and I get to go to a baby-shower for one of my highschool friends--so. weird. Well, it's holiday time, so merry whatever-it-is-you-celebrate. My family's gearing up for Hanukkah (mom's side) and Christmas (dad's side), so it'll be an interesting year. So much food though!


	11. I Remember Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is having an off week. And Dick loves him, but sometimes the man's just an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied child abuse an some slight suicidal ideology. I've been told recently by my wonderful beta that I should have put this on most of my chapters, so I apologize for that. Also, a lot of angst here, so be warned!

When Bruce wakes up, it takes him nearly ten minutes to remember everything that happened last night. He’d rolled over and almost gone back to sleep, when his mind finally woke up enough to remember the details of previous and current events. Groaning at the stiffness in his back— _he pulled a muscle, okay? He’s not getting old—_ he shuffles down to the cave to check on the drugged Talon.

The man is where they’d left him, heart monitor beeping at a slow, steady rate. The unnatural pallor and dark veins give him an eerie, almost prop-like appearance. There’s something vaguely familiar about the assassin’s features though, and it bothers Bruce that he can’t quite place it. As soon as he’s finished checking on the man, he pushes the feeling aside, bracing to deal with the next problem.

The main complication, he knows, is that they’re all emotionally compromised in this case, to some degree or another. Jason and Dick are going to fight him on any drastic measure he may take regarding Tim Drake, and Alfred’s made his own position clear too. Personally, Bruce is torn—the parent in him wants to do everything possible to erase the pain and fear in the boy’s eyes, to comfort him, and to keep him safe. But objectively (Dick would say it’s the Batman side), he knows that there’s a lot to consider here: there’s the entire affiliation to the newly discovered conspiracy, the fact that the boy _did_ kill several people, the concern for the safety of his own children, not to mention all the legal implications.

While he contemplates the various facets of this situation, Bruce goes back upstairs to find said child—he’s not in the safe room, as the camera feed verified. Of course, this means Bruce gets to search a sprawling house with dozens of forgotten and hidden rooms for a very small, stealth trained child. But then he considers the fact that Alfred would never have let the kid wander around unsupervised, so he decides that looking for Dick and possibly Jason will be the best bet.

He tries the dining room, game room, gym, and one library before he hears the T.V. in a nearby sitting room. Silently, he follows the sound, which he vaguely recognizes as some children’s movie. Eventually, he finds the room and all three boys.

It appears that the lack of sleep has caught up with both of his sons—Jason’s curled up on one end of the couch like a cat, while Dick is sprawled across the rest of it, hanging half-off the couch. Both of them are fast asleep, and one of them is snoring gently. Bruce scans the room, searching for the last boy, finally spotting him perched on the arm of a nearby recliner. Tim cocks his head slightly, meeting Bruce’s eyes with a neutral expression. He’s wearing a jacket that Bruce recognizes as Jason’s, and pajama bottoms that he vaguely remembers as being Dick’s years ago.

“What’s this one?” Bruce asks, nodding at the singing cartoon characters. “Dick picked, huh?”

“Yep. Said it’s ‘a classic’. _Snow White,_ maybe? I dunno.” Tim shrugs, fiddling with the cuff of one too-long sleeve. “He fell asleep 780.5 seconds into it.” Noting Bruce’s confused expression, he elaborates with “13 and a half minutes.”

“Ah.” And because this really strikes him as funny, Bruce asks “How long did Jason last?”

“Um…2,100 seconds? So…35 minutes. Maybe a little more, cuz he kept waking up.”

Bruce smiles a little, thinking about Jason’s strange sleeping habits. “I bet. He’s a light sleeper. I’m surprised this song isn’t waking him up.”

He doesn’t get an answer, which is pretty much what he’d expected—Tim doesn’t strike him as someone who likes idle conversation.

“I’ve got some questions, if you wouldn’t mind moving somewhere without Disney movies.”

The boy nods curtly and hops off the chair, watching Bruce warily, entire body tensed He doesn’t move until Bruce starts to leave the room, and maintains a good foot’s distance between them. Bruce can hear the boy’s breathing, strained and rapid, like he’s trying to calm himself without anyone noticing. The man frowns slightly, not sure what it is that has the child so upset, but doesn’t comment—it’s obvious that Tim doesn’t want him to notice that there’s anything wrong.

Originally, Bruce had planned on just sitting the boy down in his office and grilling him for answers, but he’s decided that this tactic is probably the last thing he wants to do. So instead, he chooses one of the large, open libraries near the front of the manor. Entering the room, he gestures for Tim to sit, taking a seat himself. The boy remains standing, looking ill at ease.

“Okay. Tim, I need to know right away—did you tell _anyone_ about who we are? _Anyone?”_

“No, sir. I’m positive.” The boy’s eyes are fixed on some point past Bruce’s head, small body at attention like some sort of soldier. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“That’s…good.” Bruce relaxes minutely, relieved to know that the security breach will not have any negative effects, assuming Tim is telling the truth. “Very good. Okay, now.” He exhales slowly, thinking of how to word the rest of the questions. “What do you know about the regenerative chemicals The Court is using?”

“Not much. Um, I’m pretty sure it has something to do with, uh, Greek mythology. I dunno. They don’t exactly _like_ questions.” After a beat, he adds “sorry.”

Bruce sighs and nods—he’d expected as much, but it would have made things a lot easier. “It’s fine. Do you know why the people you, ah…assassinated were targeted.”

“Pissed off The Court. Didn’t pay up, talked too much, whatever.” The boy shrugs minutely. “Didn’t really ask. Makes it easier.”

“Made killing them easier.” Bruce says with a frown. “They were human beings with families and lives, Tim. Do you even know their names?” Tim shrugs again, and Bruce feels his anger rising. “This isn’t some trivial matter. You _murdered_ them, and that’s not something to be taken lightly. You do realize that, right? Tim, you can’t shrug off the murder of six people like it’s nothing.”

Bruce stops, trying to reign his temper back in. Tim hasn’t said a word or even tried to through his entire rant, and suddenly he notices that there is blood welling up slowly from the boy’s split lip, probably from him biting it or chewing on it. Bruce sighs, feeling slightly ashamed for losing his temper. He goes to massage his temples and Tim jumps back reflexively from the motion.

Realizing what had happened, Bruce starts to apologize, hoping to keep the situation from digressing further. But before he can do anything or say a single word, Tim says hoarsely “I _know_ who they were.”

And then he bolts, moving far faster than Bruce does, out into the hall and out of sight by the time Bruce has made it to the door. The man sighs in frustration and looks back and forth frantically, trying to figure out which direction the boy went. But he already knows that there’s no easy way to fix this situation, even assuming that he can _find_ Tim now.

\---

 _Even after two years down there, Tim didn’t stop trying to run. He’d tried almost every night for the first two months—68 days of trying to run away from the people who had taken everything from him. After he’d tried and been caught 68 times, after 68 extra “punishments”—such a fancy word for torture—after 1,632 hours of_ non-stop pain, _he’d realized something: he hadn’t had anything to be taken away._

 _When he was five, his parents took him to the circus. And no matter how awful that night had turned out to be, it was still one of the best days in his life. It was also the last time he saw his parents for more than a few hours, the last time either of his parents would touch him. After that day, it was always aloneness. His parents paid for everything, but never came back fully. And so he’d had the gymnastic classes, and the karate, and the private tutors. He just didn’t have parents to tell how those classes went. He knew why, even then, knew they didn’t want to be responsible for him. And Tim doesn’t blame them, because now even_ he _doesn’t want to be responsible for him._

 _But even though he knew there was nothing to run_ to, _he’d still tried. Every time ended in unbelievable pain, but he tried again. Because even the empty loneliness of that huge, silent house was better than the cold, damp, cruel underworld he was in._

_Tim had run then, when there was no hope of actually escaping, and he runs now. And nobody catches him now. He runs and runs, sucking in air as he goes, trying to still the terror and pain inside. His parents were right, and even Batman didn’t want responsibility for him._

_He’d thought maybe this set of questions might go the way they did in The Court. Tim would stand there and answer questions, but no answers would matter in the end, and physical pain is easier to deal with than fear or guilt. But that’s what he’s got instead: he’s made Bruce Wayne angry, and he’s pretty sure that this isn’t gonna change, that he’s just gone and burned the last bridge he had to escape by._

_And now Tim has no idea what will happen. He can’t just run, because there’s The Court of Owls, and he can’t just stay, because they don’t want him there. And Tim won’t die, because now that it’s an option, he can’t bring himself to do it._

_You can’t run from your own faults though, and Tim_ knows _this. He can’t run from the ghosts in his head—his parents and_ every single person _he’s killed. And himself. He can’t run and he can’t hide from his mind. But he can’t stay and wait for the inevitable pain that’s going to come in some form or other now, so Tim keeps running._

\---

After a good twenty minutes of searching, Bruce has to admit defeat. Wayne Manor is ridiculously expansive and he’s complained about that before. But now he’s got the added challenge of a small child who’s been _trained_ to stay out of sight. And so he decides to enlist some help.

“Dick, wake up.”

Recognizing the tone of voice, Dick groans and wakes up. “ _Okay._ Okay. I’m up. Uh…what’s up?”

“I can’t find Tim and you know all the hiding places in the Manor better than I do,” Bruce states bluntly, not sure how to soften the news. “So I need your help.”

“You _lost_ Tim?”

“He can’t have gotten far.” It’s a weak argument, and he knows it. “So, no, I did not ‘lose’ anyone. I just thought your help would expedite the process.”

“How do you manage to lose a kid that fast?” Dick looks horrified. “Okay, how long was I out? And how long ago did you _lose_ Tim?” He stresses the word “lose” purposely.

Bruce scowls. “I. Did not. _Lose._ Tim. I just…haven’t seen him in around twenty minutes. And you’ve been asleep for about two and a half hours.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Dick gets off the couch and stretches. “Great. So…I’ll take the west wing, you take the east?”

They split up, and it takes Dick about ten minutes to remember how ridiculously _big_ the place is. So he decides to think outside the box about it—he’s hidden in just about every nook and cranny of this place and knows all the secret hiding spots. _And that’s probably where they’ll find Tim_ , he reasons. _He’s small enough to fit in those places._

Unfortunately, this hunch doesn’t pan out—an hour of searching all those places turns up several dust bunnies, a stash of candy that probably belongs to Jason, and a jar of pennies that Dick vaguely remembers hoarding away years ago, but they find no 12 year old boys hiding in the dumbwaiter or back closet.

“What exactly happened between you two?” Dick demands when he runs into Bruce in the kitchen an hour later. “And you are _so_ lucky that Alfred is down in the cave cleaning today.”

“I needed to debrief the boy, and thought it’d be best to get that out of the way as soon as possible.” Bruce doesn’t acknowledge the Alfred comment—he knows full well that he’s lucky that the man is preoccupied. “The conversation got a little heated, and I must have spooked him.”

Dick’s not an idiot, and he’s fully capable in reading Bruce’s tells—the man feels guilty about something. “Again, _what happened?”_

“He kept shrugging off the fact that he’d _murdered_ six people. And I…may have lost my patience just a bit.” Bruce can see Dick about to say something. “But I _didn’t_ do anything, all right? I barely raised my voice, and I stopped as soon as I did. And I must have startled him, because the next thing I knew, he’d bolted.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Dick almost facepalms. “ _Don’t_ protest, you are. Okay, so, we can safely assume he’s not inside. Which is…bad. Because the grounds are _huge._ We’re screwed.”

Bruce doesn’t disagree, and the two stand in silence for a moment, trying to think of where to start. After a second or two, Dick suddenly straightens up.

“There’s only a few places out here he can go to, right? Nobody’s done anything with the Drake house, like, buy it or anything?”

“Not to my knowledge. Apparently there’ve been legal hang-ups.”

“Awesome. So, I’m thinking that you’ll check the shed and down by the lake. I’ll check the house, and if he’s not there, I’ll double back and check in the back and the garage. Cool?”

He doesn’t really wait for a response and heads off, leaving Bruce to either agree or not. Dick loves the man, he really does, but sometimes Bruce is incredibly thick and definitely an ass. The young man sighs and takes a second to calm down, breathing in the cool night air. If he hopes to salvage this at all, he needs to be relaxed.

The Drake house is huge and dark when he gets close. The house has never looked welcoming, but now it looks downright foreboding as Dick approaches. Honestly, it looks the same as it has for as long as he can remember, even when the Drakes were alive. And again, he can’t believe that a child lived there for years, much less that any decent parent would leave their little kid alone there.

It takes Dick about five seconds to get the stiff door lock undone. He enters quietly and eases the door shut behind him. The slight sound echoes through the empty room, impossibly loud to Dick’s ears. He winces and then looks around, orienting himself.

He’s been in the house before, several times over the past few years, so it’s not hard. Every step seems to echo in the vault-like ceilings. Again, he can’t even _imagine_ a little kid living in here—the place is set up like a museum, with displays and immaculate furniture. Nothing looks comfortable or homey. The place hasn’t been touched since that fateful night, and the house is frozen in time, and there’s still no sign that a child ever lived here.

The Drakes had been in the study, Dick knows, and there’s still dishes set out, like they’ve just stepped away for a minute from dinner. The first bloodstain is near one of the two doorways—Jack Drake hadn’t had time to react at all. Dick moves towards the stairs. The second bloodstain is at the base—he’s always wondered if Janet was trying to buy her son more time or if she was just not fast enough.

Of all the rooms, there’s only one that even remotely indicates a child’s presence—Tim’s bedroom. Dick sort of hated it, and he still does: the room feels like the set of a movie, a staged representation of childhood. The only toys are several expensive looking stuffed animals set on a high shelf, well out of reach of any child. Most of the books are “classics”, with hardly anything that would interest Dick _now,_ let alone as a kid. In spite of this, there are still traces of the kid who managed to live here: superman bedsheets, a couple fantasy novels hiding in-between the stiff spines of dense books, two framed pictures of Gotham’s skyline, and some clothes tossed haphazardly on the floor.

 _There were other things,_ Dick remembers clearly, _like the locked box filled with pictures of Batman and Robin, or the camera that had taken them. A laptop too, which had contained a lot less than they’d hoped._ He looks around the space, considering it. _There was a purple toy, too, stuffed under a pillow, wasn’t there?_ Frowning, he searches the bedding quickly, looking for that weirdly colored toy— _a bear, right?—_ that he _knows_ was there. Only it’s not.

Dick almost wants to cry in relief—there’s only about three people who would still remember that bear, and two of them are currently looking for that last person. He looks around, and quickly figures out the best place to hide would be the closet.

“Hey, Tim? You in there?” He taps the closet door lightly. “It’s Dick. C’mon, man, I know you’re in there.”

“I’m sorry,” comes a muffled response from inside. “ _So_ sorry.”

“Well, um, I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for, but, uh, we’re good, I guess. You okay?”

Silence from the closet.

“Okay, that’s a dumb question.” Dick sighs and flops onto a bean bag chair that’s stuffed in the corner. “Are you hurt? Besides the stitches, I mean.”

“…No.”

“That’s good. Hey, can I open the door? I don’t know about you, but it’s always awkward to me when people talk through doors. Besides, it’s hard to hear.”

He doesn’t get an answer, but then the door slowly opens. Tim’s pressed up against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chin. Dick’s not even sure how he got the door open from that position.

“Thanks.” He shifts, trying to get slightly more comfortable. “These chairs suck. God.”

“You’re sitting on a shoe,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “That’s not comfortable.”

Dick rolls his eyes at the comment and fishes out the shoe. “You’re right. Much less awful. So…what’s the bear’s name?” He gestures towards the toy that Tim’s fiddling with.

“Bear.”

“Wow.”

“What? I was, like, four. Some dude trying to sell some business deal to my parents thought it’d make them like him if he gave their kid a toy. And my mother hated this thing, so it didn’t exactly need a nice name, cuz she was gonna get rid of it as soon as we got home.”

“But it’s still here,” Dick observes. “So…”

“It’s a good name. It says exactly what it is, like a definition.” Tim stares hard at the toy, like it’s offended him personally somehow. “I pulled it out of the trash when she wasn’t looking. Hid it under the mattress for a few years. Don’t know why I kept it. She _hated_ stuffed toys,” he adds, giving Dick the same look. “Unless they were ‘educational’ and could be kept clean. Apparently, they’re ‘germ factories’. And they’re messy. I think that’s probably it—kids leave them everywhere and make the house less presentable.”

Because Dick really wants to avoid that depressing train of thought, he changes subjects. “Did you run all the way here just wearing socks?”

“They’re better than going barefoot.”

“Not the question.”

Tim shrugs and doesn’t answer. He holds the toy with an arm in each hand and spins it like it’s doing tricks on gymnastic rings.

“His arms woulda been busted out of socket by now,” Dick comments. “I mean, I’ve done enough gymnastics to know that.”

“It’s a toy, it doesn’t have sockets. Do you know how to use the rings?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I didn’t get to learn that in class. It’s for older students or something.” Tim says, still spinning the toy. “I learned how to do some flips though. Nothing really cool, not like the flips you can do.”

“I can do cool flips?” Dick asks, amused.

“Yep. That’s how I figured it out, you know. The quadruple somersault. Saw you do it as Robin and remembered it. I saw you at the circus, and you said you’d do it for me, and I remembered it. It’s a pretty distinctive move, y’know.”

“Yeah…let’s not tell Bruce that part, okay? He already thinks I do too many stupid tricks.” Dick grins. “That’s pretty impressive though. You actually remember that whole thing, huh?”

“I remember _everything_.” Tim purses his lips, considering. “Even stupid stuff. And that night was great. Uh, not the part where your parents, uh, you know. But the rest. It was the best time I had that year. Well, a lot of years, actually.”

“Huh. Oh, hey, that reminds me.” Dick pulls a worn piece of paper from his pocket. “It was in your stuff,” he explains, holding the photograph out for the boy to grab. “The pictures you took, I mean. I remember when this one was taken, so I, uh, held onto it. Thought you should have it back though.”

Tim studies the photo carefully, silently tracing the faces with a fingertip.

Dick keeps talking, filling the silence. “I remember that your dad kept talking about how you were freaked out by the clowns or something, I dunno. You didn’t look scared, I thought you looked happy, maybe a little shy, but happy. I can remember thinking that we should keep you. I’d been after my parents for a little brother for weeks, and you were cute and acted like you’d never been hugged or anything when I picked you up. Sounds stupid now, but that’s what I was thinking then.”

“I hadn’t, not by people who weren’t paid to do things like that,” Tim says quietly, still staring at the picture. “My parents thought I’d stop asking for stuff if we took a picture, that’s why we did it. It worked, I guess. I was too busy waiting for you to do that flip like you’d promised to care about anything else. And then after that,” he shrugs. “I kept the picture though, cuz everyone looks so happy in it, and it’s easier to remember that when you can look at it.”

For a moment, Dick can almost see the toddler he’d met years ago, hiding behind the boy’s guarded eyes. Then Tim looks at him, and there’s only the twelve year old there, looking tired and miserable.

“I made him mad,” the boy states. “Didn’t I?”

It takes Dick a second to figure out what he’s talking about. “Well, he’s a little upset that you ran off, but mostly Bruce is just mad at himself. It’s cool, he’ll get over it.”

“What’re you guys gonna do?”

“With…?”

“Me. I don’t have family, and there’s no way you’d let a murderer go into foster care. So that leaves prison or getting rid of the problem permanently,” Tim explains, clearly having thought this all out. “You’re not gonna keep me. I’m not stupid enough to think that, and since you both have that whole moral code thing, that leaves Arkham or Blackgate.”

“First, last time I looked, you weren’t skipping around going ‘oh, yay, I’m gonna kill this person!’, so I think ‘murderer’ is a bit of a strong term to use here. So is ‘problem’. Second, you’re right, we’re not killing anyone. Third,” Dick continues sternly. “To my knowledge, none of us would ever knowingly send a kid to either Arkham or Blackgate. And finally, no one said we’re not ‘keeping you’. And Bruce isn’t making a command decision on that subject. So let me make that part perfectly clear: we’re not planning on getting rid of you.”

Tim looks dubious, but doesn’t argue. Dick’s not sure if it’s because he’s slightly convinced or if he’s just too tired to argue. The young man sighs and flops his head back against the bean bag.

“Any chance you’d be willing to come out of there and head back to the Manor? It’s pretty cold in here.” After a beat, Dick adds “I’ll make sure Bruce doesn’t do anything. And if needed, I’m not above telling Alfred, and he’s gonna be pissed off with the adult responsible.”

“Do I have to watch anymore stupid cartoons?”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just insult a great American classic there. No, you don’t ‘have to watch anymore stupid cartoons’. Although I’m willing to bet that Jason’s awake by now, and he’ll probably let you play video games with him if you want. Apparently, I’m ‘no fun to play with’. Okay?”

“Fine.” Tim mutters, and he climbs out of the small space, grimacing a little at the pins and needles in his feet. “Here.” He holds out the photograph.

Dick shakes his head. “You hold onto it, okay? I mean, it’s yours to begin with.”

“…Thanks.”

“Sure thing. Just promise me you’ll wait at least four hours before making us run all over the Manor again, okay?”

Tim looks annoyed. “I didn’t _make_ you do anything. And I don’t plan on doing anything.”

“Great, glad we agree!” Dick almost leaps off the chair, thrilled to be free of the thing. “You wanna take anything with us while we’re here?”

“No.” Tim shakes his head, then mumbles “’S stupid.”

“What is? I’m not hiking back over here again today.” He doesn’t get an answer, but he does note that Tim’s still holding onto the bear. “You wanna bring that?”

“N-“

“Nobody really has an opinion on toys, y’know. Actually, I think I still have a couple stuffed animals somewhere.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I know I still have the stuffed elephant I’ve had since I was a kid. And don’t tell Jason I told you, but he has like four or five beanie babies hiding in his room.”

Tim gives him a long look. “Okay.”

Dick grins, mentally cheering over winning the argument. He knows that it’s probably not a big victory in the long run, but Tim looks slightly less miserable, so he’s counting it. Now he just has to keep Bruce from being stupid for the rest of the day, and maybe this can still turn out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who stayed up til 1 am before a final making cookies and writing a chapter! Yay, productivity.  
> Angsty sort of chapter, but I liked it!  
> I actually started to get Bruce Wayne confused with the dog, who's name is Bruce. Bruce the Dog has been very antsy because of the weather, and he's driving me insane. So is Bruce Wayne. It's actually quite therapeutic to yell at them both.


	12. Dominoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illusions end the moment you recognize what they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over! I'm going to post this and then sleep for the next week. XD

_He’s been here two weeks now. 14 days exactly, and it’s almost too easy to forget that he’s ever been anywhere else. Honestly, it’s been the best 336 hours he’s ever had._

_After about two days, it had been decided that he didn’t need to be locked up anymore—though he was still being escorted. They’re not_ that _subtle—and now he has his own room next to Jason’s—he knows it’s because, besides Alfred, Jason is there the most, and he’s also the lightest sleeper._

_Regardless of the not-so-subtle security measures, Tim is happy. Ridiculously happy. He’s got blankets and privacy, he has things that are solely his—he hasn’t had his own stuff in years—and, after the first week, Dick and Jason had announced that they’d “officially” decided that Tim was their new little brother. He’s still not sure how Mr. Wayne (he’s still getting crap for calling the man that) feels about all this, but he doesn’t seem too angry about it._

_It’s pretty much better than anything he ever dreamed of, and he did_ a lot _of dreaming and imagining, even before The Court of Owls. But Tim isn’t able to relax with this new reality, because it_ really is _an illusion. He’s the only one here who knows just how much of a farce is going on right now and the knowledge is haunting him._

_Tim’s on borrowed time now, and he’s really pushing the limits of this deadline. The only reason he’s dared to do this is because a, only Cobb knows where he is and the man hasn’t been conscious since they’d first revived him, and b, because The Court doesn’t know where he is, he can make excuses later and they won’t be able to disprove them. They’re not the best reasons, but that’s how he’s justified all of this._

_Today’s the end of it all though. He’s got opportunity—Dick’s off doing “stuff”, Jason’s got a cold, Alfred’s distracted with Jason, and Mr. Wayne had to go to a meeting. So it’s child’s play to slip downstairs into the cave and get onto the computer. Tim’s good with computers and he can get in and out of the programs without leaving a trace._

_He types out the necessary information and sends it. Then he leans back against the chair, trying to move past the massive guilt he feels. It doesn’t work, so he focuses on other things and compartmentalizes the emotion. It can wait. There will be plenty of time to feel bad about all of this later on, when dominoes start falling._

_Tim is sorry._

_\---_

By midday, Jason is _bored._ He _hates_ being sick. At first, he was fine watching the portable T.V. Alfred let them use when they were sick. But after a little bit, watching movies alone gets old. So when he sees Tim walking by his door, he can’t keep himself from calling out to the younger boy.

“Hey, Tim! You wanna watch a movie with me?” As soon as Jason asks, he remembers that he’s probably not supposed to have company when he’s sick. “Um, unless you’re worried about getting my cold.”

Tim shrugs at that last bit and wanders in. “’Kay, as long as we’re not watching _another_ crappy cartoon musical.”

“Deal. Besides, that’s Dick’s thing, not mine. I was thinking comedy. Or Star Wars. I don’t really care.”

“ _Star Wars,”_ Tim says definitively, flopping onto the foot of the bed.

Jason grins and turns on _A New Hope,_ although it does suddenly occur to him that Tim’s probably not seen the newest one yet. But the kid doesn’t seem inclined to care and Jason doesn’t want to think too hard right now, so he leaves it.

They’re about half through the film when Jason starts to feel sleepy. So he starts talking again, because he is _not_ taking another nap.

“I _hate_ being sick,” he declares, annoyed with how hoarse his voice is. “Only time I didn’t mind was probably when I was really little. My mom’d stay home with me and tell me stories and stuff. It was almost worth it.”

Tim hums in acknowledgement. “What kinds of stories?”

“I dunno, the kind you tell little kids, I guess. Like uh, fairytales and stuff like that. You know, the classics.” Jason frowns, trying to remember what stories she’d told, but all he can remember is how much he’d liked having his mom home and lucid and babying him.

“’The classics’ are stories like _The Odyssey_ or _A Tale of Two Cities._ They’re super depressing.”

“I meant kid’s classics. Jeez. Your mom told you those for bedtime stories?”

“No…” Tim drawls out, tilting his head in the way that means he’s thinking. “I read them. My mother didn’t _do_ bedtime stories. And I knew how to read by the time I was three. So there wasn’t any reason for it.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to that. “What’d they do when you were sick? Your parents, I mean.”

“Nothing.”

“My mom would make me chicken noodle soup,” Jason blurts. He really misses his mom now. _Fuck._ “Alfred’s isn’t as good. Dunno why, cuz she made the canned stuff and he doesn’t.”

“Taste and emotion are closely linked.” Tim shrugs and looks over at him. “Do you miss your parents?”

“Uh, _yeah._ Well, my mom. Dad was an asshole. I miss my mom a lot sometimes.” He can feel his eyes starting to sting a little, so he turns the question back at the younger boy. “How ‘bout you?”

Tim gives him one of those inscrutable expressions he makes when he’s not sure how to answer. Then he shakes his head slowly, still considering. “No, not really. I mean, they were gone _way before_ they, uh, died. I’d stopped missing them mostly by then anyway.”

“Where’d they go?” Jason’s curious, because he _still_ hasn’t found a way to get into the entire case file and neither Dick nor Bruce will share _any_ “unessential” details. “I mean, my mom would take off all the time, ‘specially when she was high, but she wasn’t ‘gone’.”

“Dunno, they just… _left._ I wasn’t something they _wanted,_ you know.” Tim says flatly. “I heard them once. I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs, and I heard them in the study, so I was sort of, um, eavesdropping. My mother was saying she was done, that she didn’t _want_ to love me, it’d make things harder, and that she couldn’t stay home anymore. I guess dad agreed, because they left the next day. They came home for maybe two days a year that I knew of. Honestly, I don’t know why they were there that night.”

“’It’d make things harder’?” Jason doesn’t want to know anymore, but at the same time, he totally does.

“They’d only had me because they _had_ to. And she didn’t want to be attached to something she wasn’t keeping.” Jason looks confused, so he elaborates. “I learned this bit later—they were members of The Court, it’s a family thing, I guess, and they weren’t super involved or anything. Actually, they were about to get, uh, kicked out, so to speak, cuz they were pretty much broke. So they made a deal, like the kind from your ‘children’s classics’.”

“Seriously? They _actually_ did the whole ‘first born in exchange for money’ thing? _For real?”_

“The Court’s big on bloodlines and they needed a new Talon. My parents were big on money and they needed a steady income.”

“That’s really fucked up,” Jason says, trying to figure out what kind of people actually sold their kids—he knew a lot of people in the Narrows who would or did, but he never would have thought any rich people would. After all, they had everything, and therefore no desperation deep enough to destroy basic human decency. “I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s cool. I’m over it.” Tim turns back towards the screen, noting that the movie’s over. “You’re probably supposed to be sleeping right now.” There’s absolutely no subtly in his attempt to change the subject.

“Well,” Jason snaps, feeling angry at the world all of a sudden. “’m not tired.”

“You’ve been yawning for the past _hour,_ Jason. How is it possible for you to be a worse liar than Dick?”

Jason groans, but concedes the point. “Fine, I’m tired. I just don’t wanna sleep anymore. And I’m not _trying_ to lie, so that’s why. Why don’t we turn another movie on and I promise I’ll try to sleep, okay?”

Tim shrugs, not arguing. Jason feels a little guilty, because the kid looks sort of sad, and it’s totally his fault.

“There’s a new _Star Wars_ movie, you know? You seen it yet?” He offers in consolation.

“Uh-uh.”

“We’re watching that then.” Jason turns the movie on and lays back on the pillows. Then he thinks for a second, sits up, and drags Tim to the head of the bed. Jason’s not really into hugging and that shit, but he _can_ be sensitive, okay? The kid tries to squirm free, so he pokes him in the ribs, ordering “hold still. We are ‘bonding’.” And then, as an excuse, “Also, I’m cold and you’re pretty warm. Humor me.”

Tim groans and protests. “You’re sick! If I catch it, I’m blaming you.”

But he stops squirming and eventually relaxes, resting his head on Jason’s shoulder to watch the film. As much as Jason likes this movie, he quickly finds that it’s a lot more fun to watch Tim reacting to it than it is to watch the film. Eventually though, he starts to nod off, falling asleep to the soundtrack of a sci-fi film. He doesn’t notice when Tim slips back out of the room, whispering a barely-audible “Bye, Jason”.

\---

With Robin out of commission, Nightwing and Batman are both on patrol tonight. Since the assassinations have stopped, there’s been little action. This night is shaping up to be just as quiet as all the others, but it _is_ Gotham, so neither vigilante is feeling particularly at ease.

Dick keeps thinking about a conversation he and Tim had had a little while before he left on patrol. It had been a strange sort of encounter, and with no distractions, Dick was free to obsess over it.

He’d gotten home pretty late—Bruce was already in the cave, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Dick was a little surprised to find Tim and Alfred down there as well, but apparently the boy had been trying to convince their butler that he could have the stitches in his stomach out, and Alfred agreed to check…and Bruce wanted to take another blood sample, hence them all being down in the cave. Alfred was pissed, that much was obvious— _probably because Bruce was enabling Tim._ Bruce seemed to be doing his best attempt to ignore the pointed looks and sighs, though he seemed on edge. And Tim had the same sort of expression he’d had that first night—a resigned, wary sort of look.

That expression had appeared less and less frequently over the past few weeks, but now it was back as though it’d never been absent. Dick had frowned a little, wondering what that was about, and wandered over, tossing a “Hey, B.” in his father’s direction. He got a grunt in response and grinned as he flopped down onto the cot next to Tim. The boy gave him a dismissive look, more like he was acknowledging Dick’s presence than anything.

“No luck with the stitches, huh?” Dick asked, noting the new bandages. And then, because he’d been relatively sure he wouldn’t get hurt for it, he wrapped an arm around the boy’s skinny shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “It takes more than a couple weeks to heal, you know.”

Tim sighed and leaned into the embrace— _startling the crap out of Dick in the process—_ and mutters “Yeah, I know. But I _need_ them out.”

Dick has learned not to try and question weird statements like that from both Jason and now Tim—the reasoning is normally pretty sad and there’s no swaying the logic there. So he just shrugged sympathetically. “Sorry. You cold?”

“No.”

“Hmm, yeah, that’s bullshit. Where’s your shirt at?”

“Dunno.”

“Jeez, and I thought Jason was the forgetful one,” Dick quipped, looking around for the garment. He didn’t see it, so he grabbed a blanket instead. “Here, use this. I’m gonna go see what the mad scientist is doing over there.”

For some reason, he’d been a little disappointed that he didn’t even get an annoyed look from the boy. Tim, he’d found, had a wicked sense of humor, but also possessed a well-practiced poker-face. Dick and Jason had been in a secret competition to get an actual smile out of the kid, and thus far, Dick had been ahead. But he brushed it off and peered over Bruce’s shoulder.

“Well, Frankenstein, your verdict is…?”

Bruce sighed in annoyance and shrugged the younger man off. “Well, I’ve managed to isolate some of the components from the older samples—it’s electrum. But the amounts are different. Actually, Tim doesn’t seem to have any real amount of it in his system now. And without more than one subject, it’s hard to figure out the entire composition.”

“So…basically, you made progress, but you’re stuck without another Talon,” Dick paraphrased. He looked back at Tim, who hadn’t moved. “Hey, how many Talons are there?”

“There’s a whole army of them,” Tim replied, not looking at them. “Most of them aren’t active though. Just Cobb. I think there’s another one, but I’m supposed to replace him. Not sure.”

“You didn’t think we’d need this information?” Bruce said, looking incredulous, though Dick had recognized that the man was more alarmed than angry. “An _army?”_

Dick had cut in before the situation could get out of hand. “They’re inactive, right? So we should focus on the _active_ ones, don’t you think, Bruce? If there’s a third one out there, we just need to find him and we’ll have another sample.”

Bruce frowned, but he’d agreed and headed off to get suited up. Dick had followed a few seconds after, with Alfred’s promise of a snack speeding him along. There had been an awesome grilled cheese sandwich waiting when he’d finished, and so he’d munched on it, waiting for Batman. Tim was still down there, because _technically_ he wasn’t supposed to be wandering around anywhere without supervision. The boy had been quiet, looking almost apprehensive, and Dick hadn’t been able to pry a reason out of him.

But just as he’d been heading out, Tim had come over and totally freaked him out by wrapping his arms around Dick’s waist, ordering him to “be careful.” Dick had laughed it off for the most part, saying that he would, but Tim hadn’t looked convinced, watching them both leave with a strange expression.

And now, because it was eerily calm tonight, Dick was driving himself crazy trying to figure out what the boy had meant by that. To his knowledge, Tim didn’t initiate contact, like, _ever._ And then there was the whole ominous “be careful” thing. He’d tried mentioning this to Bruce, but the man was in full “Batman-mode” and stated that he didn’t need a distraction like this. He’d also pointed out that kids say strange things some times.

Dick wasn’t convinced, but he really didn’t have any real reason beyond his vague unease, so he’d dropped it…at least out loud. But while they’re swinging across the skyline, he’s got nothing else to do but listen for trouble and mull over the interaction again and again.

Suddenly, ahead of him, he sees Batman touchdown onto a rooftop in a fight stance, looking around alertly. Frowning, the younger vigilante lands nearby, searching for the reason they’ve stopped.

“What’s up?”

Very slowly, Batman replies “Thermal imaging showed something up here human-shaped, but there’s nothing here now…”

“Shit.” Nightwing scans the area, totally alert. “Think it’s the other Talon?”

“I’m not sure. Sweep the roof, we’ll go from there.”

The two part ways, slowly examining the rooftop, straining to catch even the slightest indication of another presence. And the, without warning, the area is swarming in black-clad figures, all of whom wield weapons with an almost eerie familiarity. In a matter of seconds, the duo go from searching to frantically working to fend off multiple, deadly attacks.

Breathing hard and unable to see his partner, Batman calls out. “They’re not alive, remember? Focus on stopping the attacks _only,_ Nightwing!”

He prays that the other man hears him, and then focuses all of his own efforts at creating space. There are five attackers that he has noted, and he quickly determines which one is the weakest fight—a Talon wielding two scimitars. The Dark Knight dodges a lunge from the assassin, grabbing the black-covered arm and redirecting the attack into the path of another charging Talon. The scimitar fighter is impaled upon the other Talon’s sai, dead weight throwing the Talon off. The assassin stumbles, and Batman lands a sharp kick to the Talon’s neck, snapping it.

Of course, this does nothing to impede the undead fighter, who merely falls over from the blow and is already scrambling up as the vigilante realizes this. Thinking quickly, the man pulls an explosive batarang from his belt—he’s used the weapon against many vehicles and other obstructions, never on a person before—slams it down into the Talon’s back as forcefully as he can, then leaps back, hearing the detonation rather than seeing it. Glancing back to see the aftermath, he finds that the now dismembered Talons—the blast caught both unfortunate assassins—now incapacitated. Grinning sharply, Batman shouts out this solution for his partner, then goes to work on the remaining Talons.

By the time they’ve incapacitated all the Talons, both men are bloody from nearly a dozen wounds each and thoroughly exhausted. Breathing heavily, Nightwing looks over at his partner, who looks just as worse for wear.

“What…” he gasps out. “The _hell?”_

“We need to get back to the cave.” Batman states, already summoning the car and heading for the edge of the roof. “ _Now.”_

\---

By the time they get there, Bruce has already gone over the possibilities and narrowed it down to the two most likely scenarios. Either the entire attack was staged as a distraction to keep them occupied and away from the Manor, in which case he can only imagine what may have happened to his family. _Or,_ and this is what he’s leaning towards, this whole thing was planned, the attack was an ambush, and— _he really doesn’t want to think of the implications. Not yet._

They pull in, brakes screeching as they skid to a halt. Both men are out of the car as soon as the vehicle stops. Bruce rushes to the console to check the security systems and cameras. He feels a wave of relief as he sees that nothing appears to be amiss. But the relief ends when he notices that Alfred is nowhere to be found, either in the cave or on the screens.

“Dick, go check on your brother.” Bruce says, getting control of his emotions. “Be careful—Alfred seems to be missing, and we don’t know for sure that the house is clear.”

He watches as his oldest son heads for the stairs at a run, footsteps barely audible, even on the cement floor. As soon as the young man is out of sight, Bruce turns to check on the med bay. His stomach twists when his suspicions are confirmed—the Talon is gone.

With a heavy heart, he double checks the rest of the cave— _just in case—_ before jogging upstairs. As he goes, Bruce tries to think of any places that aren’t under surveillance where Alfred might be. He focuses on recalling areas that one could lock a person up in, because he _really_ doesn’t think that Tim would actually _harm_ the butler. _At least, he_ hopes _not._ Before he starts to search, however, Bruce has to see for himself that Jason is okay. He runs into Dick in the hall on his way.

“Jay’s out like a light,” the younger man says, brow furrowed in concern. “I haven’t found Alfred or Tim yet.”

“The Talon is gone.” Bruce states. He feels it best to dispel any hopes in that area. “I doubt we’ll find Tim anywhere here.”

 Dick nods in understanding, face grim. “Okay. Any ideas where we should be looking for Alfred?”

“Start with the spare rooms—the ones with locks.”

The younger man nods and takes off, thinking of the different rooms as he goes. After consideration, Dick starts with the west wing, recalling that Alfred had planned to clean that part of the Manor. The first few rooms are empty, but finally he comes across a knob that won’t turn.

“Alfred, you in there?” Dick calls, trying to jiggle the latch. “Alfred?”

A minute later, he hears the butler’s voice, muffled through the door.

“Master Dick, if you’d be so kind as to release knob?” The butler requests drily. “I’ve a spare key that should do the trick.”

A few seconds later, the door finally swings open, revealing a slightly disheveled Alfred. The Englishman waves off Dick’s proffered hand.

“I’m quite alright, Master Dick. Just a bit off-balance.”

“What happened?” Dick frowns in concern. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Quite.” Suddenly, Alfred frowns in concern. “Is Master Jason—“

Dick hastily reassures him. “Jason’s fine. He’s fast asleep. It’s _you_ we’ve been worried abou—oh, shit, we need to tell Bruce that you’re okay!”

The two quickly retrace Dick’s steps back into the occupied part of the house. Bruce meets them in the kitchen, looking thoroughly relieved to see them both in one piece.

“What happened?” The man demands, taking in Alfred’s rumpled appearance. “Are you alright?”

Alfred waves a hand dismissively, taking a seat. “Nothing that a cup of tea can’t mend. Master Dick, would you kindly put the kettle on?”

While Dick hops to do the task, Bruce frowns and leans towards the older man.

“Alfred,” he says in a low voice. “What happened?”

“I’m afraid that I allowed young Timothy to get the jump on me. The last thing I can recall is stepping into that room. I fear I may have been rendered unconscious.” Alfred sighs sadly. “My sincerest apologies, Master Bruce.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The butler gives him a discerning look. “I wasn’t quite referring to that, now was I?”

“I knew it was a risk, Alfred.” Bruce wishes very much that his old friend wasn’t quite so discerning at times. “But Tim’s made his choice, and we have to live with that.”

“You’re not quite as stoic as you might wish, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, almost fondly. “Timothy is a child who has made what he felt were the best decisions available. He’s also a child that you’ve become rather fond of—oh, don’t try to deny it—so regardless of what happens now, you’re facing difficult decisions.”

Bruce glances over to see if Dick’s still occupied—he’s either distracted or pretending to be—before responding. “What should I do?”

“I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision,” the older man replies. “I for one feel that you have so far, and I’m confident you’ll continue to do so. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stands up, turning to face Dick’s direction. “Master Dick, are you attempting to create a sauna? No? Then perhaps we could take the kettle off now.”

He walks away, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts. While he’s flattered that Alfred seems convinces that he’ll find the right thing to do, Bruce feels a lot like that faith is misplaced. His mind is still reeling from the events of the evening. And— _he’s sure Alfred knows this—_ the butler was correct when he said that Bruce had come to care about Tim, probably a bit more than he should have.

While he might have half expected this betrayal, he wasn’t remotely prepared for how… _upsetting_ it would be. Nor could he have predicted the fear that’s slowly creeping in as he realizes the full implications—If Tim betrayed them all to The Court of Owls, then that also meant that he was back _with_ The Court. And he still remembers all too well the scars and other marks that covered the boy’s body like a record of all the pain he’d endured etched into his skin.

All Bruce can think of at this moment is that now, after all the reassurances and empty promises he’s made, Tim still felt that his best chances lay with the people he was most terrified of. And Bruce is at a lost as to how to fix all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Bruce is a super empathetic person when he lets his guard down, and he knows it. That's why he's always so reluctant to trust people.  
> Tim's working off of what he knows for sure. He's got no experience with lasting kindness, so he's always going to be planning for the rejection. And in this situation, he thinks his best option is the pain he knows--The Court's already displeased, so there's no surprises for him. He's a kid, he's never had a stable, loving environment, and with The Court of Owls looming over his head, there's no way he's going relax and try to trust the new experience. Kids, even 12yr olds, are both incredibly logical and emotional. According to my psychology class, this is partially because they haven't developed full self-control and can't separate the two properly yet, because in their mind, emotion and logic are the same. No clue if it's true, but it'd make a little sense!


	13. Information Has a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How completely did Tim betray them? And what are they supposed to tell Jason?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanukkah is in full swing, the house hasn't burned down yet, and so life goes on!

_How did we not see this coming,_ Dick thinks irately. _How did we miss the signs?_

He’s still reeling from the entire revelation of Tim’s betrayal. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that the boy was responsible for the ambush earlier that evening, as well as the disappearance of William Cobb. And of course, there’s the immediate concern of whether or not he’s sold them out completely—Bruce has already gone back to the cave to ascertain whether this is the case.

Personally, Dick doubts that Tim would have done that. _After all, Tim could have done that three years ago,_ he justifies. Sighing, the young man slumps against the wall. He’d offered to check and see if there was anything in the kid’s room that would give them an idea of just how far he’d gone, but now he was regretting that decision immensely. Staring down the hall, Jason’s door catches his eye, and— _oh God, what are we supposed to tell Jason?_

Dick groans and softly bangs his head back against the wall. He’s got no idea how they’re going to break the news of this grievous betrayal to his little brother. Jason has plenty of abandonment and trust issues as it is, and there’s no telling how he’s going to handle the fact that Tim, the kid they’ve both come to consider their brother, has sold them out to The Court of Owls.

 _Get a grip,_ Dick chides himself, getting back up and walking the last thirty or so feet to the now empty bedroom. Already, it’s easy to forget that there was anyone occupying this room up until about five hours ago. The bed is made, clothes put away, lights turned off. Dick wonders whether the neatness thing was a personality quirk or something that had been hammered into the boy’s head over the years by inattentive parents and mask-wearing psychopaths. He scans the room, eyes catching on something resting neatly on the pillow. Walking over, Dick recognizes the stuffed, purple bear they’d brought back from the empty house.

The bear is slumped against the pillow, sort of flopped over to one side. A piece of paper is poking out from under it. Dick scoops them both up and sits down on the floor, back against the bed frame. He examines the paper first, unfolding it. There’s a message written on it in clear, neat print. He frowns slightly and reads, heart sinking with each sentence.

_Dick,_

_I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but there really wasn’t any choice. Some promises can’t be kept. Hopefully, I was right and you guys came out on top. Talons aren’t alive. As long as you guys remember that, I know you’ll win._

_Please don’t blame yourself for this and don’t let Bruce do that either. Whatever happens now is out of your control. You’re a good big brother, and I’ll miss being here with all of you. Please let Jason know that too._

_I’m sorry,_

_Tim_

\---

Bruce is trying hard to compartmentalize his emotions. Right now, he needs to focus on damage control. It’s been obvious from the very beginning of his investigation that Tim is a brilliant child, a fact that’s only been supported by the brief time spent with the boy. There’s no doubt in his mind that if Tim set out to destroy them, then it will be a serious struggle to prevent it.

The first thing he does is pull up security feeds from earlier that day, using the multiple screens to watch several feeds simultaneously. Bruce sighs and sits down in the chair, watching for anything unusual, tracking the boy’s movements throughout the day.

At about one in the afternoon (according to the time marker), the camera in the cave shows Tim entering and doing something with the computer for about ten minutes, before walking back out. He doesn’t attempt to avoid the camera, doesn’t even try to be quick. Frowning, Bruce watches intently, waiting for something, _anything_ else that shows the coming betrayal. But it seems as though there’s nothing-for the rest of the afternoon, Tim is either shadowing Alfred or, later on, watching movies with Jason. The only other moment that stands out is when they’re preparing to go on patrol—the strange conversation and cryptic warning of “be careful”.

But, about an hour after they’ve left, Bruce can see things being set in motion. Tim watches the clock closely in his bedroom, until he suddenly hops up and heads downstairs. A quick glance at the time tells Bruce that the ambush would have just begun on his end of things. He frowns and watches the kid slip silently through the rooms, shadowing Alfred until they’re out of camera view. This, the man knows, would be when Tim had locked the butler into that room.

Tim wanders back onto the screens about five minutes after, walking quickly to the hidden cave entrance. He walks with purpose now, walking to the computer, where he does something under the console that Bruce can’t see. Then the boy stands back up, glancing up at the camera. It’s almost as though he’s trying to make eye contact with anyone watching. The expression on his face is what Bruce can only call _anguish._ Just as quickly though, he’s turned away from the camera, striding towards the med bay at a measured pace.

He approaches the unconscious Talon cautiously, stopping to rock back and forth on his heels for a second with clasped hands and head tilted. Then he shrugs, unlocking the brakes to the hospital bed and taking the I.V. bag down to rest on the bed. The man has to have a good hundred pounds on Tim, and he strains to move the bed, rolling it slowly towards the ledge overlooking the river.

Bruce frowns, watching on the screen as the boy coolly gives a final shove, sending the bed and unconscious man over the side in a smooth motion. For a moment, Tim looks lost, but then he turns and heads back to the entrance, pausing again. He stares up at the camera then pointedly over at the computer and back. And then he leaves again, not reappearing on any screen.

Since Bruce already knows that the kid took one of the vehicles in the garage, he decides to find whatever it was that Tim did with the computer. It takes a minute before Bruce finds it: a USB stick stuck to the underside of the table with a piece of tape. There’s a paper attached, the words _“end this”_ scribbled on it in smudged pencil. Frowning at the cryptic message, he plugs the drive in, praying that this isn’t some sort of trap too.

While he waits for the files to load, Bruce continues rewinding the footage, looking back further and further, trying to pin-point the start of this obviously calculated betrayal. From behind, he hears footsteps— _Dick’s; they’re too fast and light to be anyone else._ Without turning, he makes a sound of acknowledgment.

Dick walks over and flops across the back of Bruce’s chair, sighing tiredly. “Well?”

“’Well’ what?” Bruce asks, but he already knows what— _did Tim do what we thought he did?_

“Did he do it?”

“Yes. He didn’t even try to hide from the cameras, Dick. This was clearly planned well in advance. This thumb-drive,” Bruce indicates it. “He left it, with a note. I’m trying to see what’s in it.”

Dick hums in a sort of defeated way. “What’s on it?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s downloading. Is Jason okay?”

“Still out like a light. What are we gonna tell him, B?”

Bruce passes a hand over his tired face before answering, wishing he could wipe away the weight of the situation. “What would you have me do, Dick? Lie? We’ll have to tell him the truth.”

“Which truth?” Dick demands. “What’s our plan here, Bruce?”

Before the man can respond, the files open on the screen. Both of them turn to view the information, scanning it with weary eyes. After a minute or so, Dick lets out a long, shaky breath, leaning his full weight against the chair.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a list,” Bruce replies, still absorbing information. “A list of all the members in The Court’s ‘Parliament’. At least, all the ones Tim was able to identify. But it’s not just names, Dick.” He lets out a sort of huffing laugh at the audacity. “It’s evidence. Bank records, invoices, pictures, even. Everything that can link them to the crimes committed by The Court. He left us a way to bring them down.”

“Wow.” Dick sounds just as much in awe. “I mean, we all knew he was smart, but this…this is beyond smart. This is insane, B,” he hesitates, moving to look Bruce in the eye. “What are we going to do?”

It’s a loaded question— _what are we going to do? Translation: what are we going to do about Tim?_ After a long pause, Bruce speaks.

“We’re going to use this information, obviously. We’re taking these bastards down,” he says firmly. “The Talons, the Parliament, all of them. This will end. And,” he adds, because he’s made his mind up, “we’re going to find Tim. He left us this information, he didn’t kill Alfred. I don’t think he wanted any part in this, Dick. We— _I_ let him down. I didn’t listen, didn’t try to understand anything. And so he felt there wasn’t a choice. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

\---

 _“It’s an assignment,” they said. “A way to redeem yourself for those…indiscretions. The Bat must die. He’s been a nuisance for too long._ You _will help Cobb ensure this.”_

_You don’t say “no” to The Court. You don’t even want to hesitate. So he said that he would do what is needed by The Court._

_Cobb explained the plan: they needed a mole, someone the Bat and his people would never suspect._

_“That’s where you come in, whelp. Either kill them, or ensure that_ I can.” _Cobb had snarled, gripping his arms hard enough to bruise. “If you can kill them in their beds, do so. Otherwise, you better make sure that the_ real _Talons can. And if you don’t, well,” the laugh is harsh and dark, “it won’t just be_ me _who’ll be angry. And I’m sure you know that there is no escaping The Court of Owls. No matter where you go, we_ will _be watching and waiting.”_

 _Of course, it’s obvious that they won’t buy just anything, it has to be real enough. And so the betrayal is forged, though he didn’t know it then. There’s no way to_ fake _the kind of reaction needed. And Cobb knew that, so he’d pushed and pushed, finding the right buttons, creating fissures. Until finally, he found the right point, and everything snapped._

 _But after he’d done it, after he’d_ killed _Cobb, he figured it out so quickly. He’s a mole, set up to create trust, gain entrance and then destroy. And they brought Cobb back with them. He knew then: if he can’t do it, he’s supposed to wake Cobb and contact The Court. But that’s not what happened._

_Because Cobb pushed the right buttons, he’d snapped. And because he’d snapped, so had Talon. Talon just wants to survive, no matter what. Tim isn’t a killer, not like this. And so he hadn’t done as he should have. He wasted as much time as possible. And then he’d done all he could to end this._

_An ambush, he knew, would be best: The Court will believe it and he had faith that Bruce and Dick would survive (he couldn’t wait to see for sure). So he’d arranged that. But he’d arranged other things too. He didn’t want to be forgotten. He trusted Dick would remember him, if nothing else. He_ still _doesn’t know why he’d left that note._

_He’d also arranged the thumb-drive. He’s been carrying that around since the first assassination; the man had it on his computer, he’d been a member who’d strayed from the flock, so to speak. Of course, neither Tim nor Talon was sure if they’d ever be able to use this information. But he hopes that Bruce will. This needs to end. He’s not the first child to be made into a Talon, and he’s not to be the last if nothing changes._

_He’s certain that he’s going to die now, either for real, or just what’s left of Tim. Because The Court knows that he did not do as he was told. They’ll know for sure when Cobb shows back up. He’d shoved Cobb into the river, because that was the only thing he could think of—Cobb won’t_ drown, _and now he won’t know where they were held, either. He’s sure that the man will tell them everything he knows, but that won’t be part of it._

_He’s sitting in his old cell—it’s never been more than that, not to him. It’s cold and dark, smelling of decay and blood. Pressed up against the back wall, he’s already remembering just how much pain he’ll soon be in. There’s going to be torture, of course, he knows that—it’s a given fact of life: you fuck up, you pay with blood and pain._

_Right now, he doesn’t know what to hope for. All he really wants is to be back_ there _, even the glass cell was better than this. But he doesn’t think that there’s any hope of that—he’s not going back, not after all he’s done now. All he_ can _hope for is that Bruce will use the information. Because that information is going to cost him more than he has left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope everything made sense! Happy whatever-you-celebrate and a good new year to us all! Seriously. 2016 needs to end.


	14. Snake in Our Midst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a plan, but when The Court of Owls proves more unpredictable than even he could imagine, everyone is left scrambling for solutions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my friend, Brandon Haynes, for letting me use his name for an OC badguy! His exact words were "I don't care what you do, as long as I'm cool." So maybe he didn't mean for me to do this to him. Anyway, enjoy!

Bruce is trying his hardest not to fidget with the collar of his fancy suit. But the seriousness and urgency of this evening has him on edge, ready to bring things to the end. It’s taken two weeks to reach this point and he fears that the whole situation rests on a knife’s edge as it is.

The plan he finally came up with is simple: infiltrate The Court of Owls, find Tim, and then take the whole thing down once the boy was safe. And so he was attending this gala—a meet-and-greet for someone-or-other, hoping to make the right connections tonight to get inside as Bruce Wayne. The pedigree alone is enough, he knows, but an invitation is equally important. Using the list of names Tim left, he’s found a few potential targets who will be here tonight.

And so he smiles vapidly, mingling and exchanging meaningless pleasantries with Gotham’s elite, keeping his eye out for anyone he’s looking for. About an hour and several ulcers in, he finally sees one of them: Brandon Haynes. Haynes is a fairly new face in the Gotham aristocracy, but he’s managed to get himself into The Court. Bruce figures that anyone that desperate to make connections will be easily convinced to get him inside.

\---

In the end, it’s even easier to convince Haynes that he’s genuinely interested than he’d expected. The other man had parted ways, eagerly promising to “be in touch shortly”. Bruce frowned and watched him leave, wondering if he’d actually convinced him of anything.

He’s still pondering this as he gets in the car for the ride home. Alfred isn’t driving tonight, having stayed home with Jason, who’d been forbidden from leaving the grounds, and so it’s someone from the car service Bruce uses occasionally. The chauffeur nods a greeting and pulls them out, eyes focused on the road ahead. It gives Bruce plenty of time to consider everything that can go wrong now.

Basically, his two biggest concerns right now are these: if Haynes doesn’t turn out to be useful, then Bruce is more or less at a dead end. _And,_ even more worrisome, it’s been over two weeks now, and there’s no way of knowing what’s happened to Tim in that time, or if he’s even still alive; he doubts there will be much mercy when they learn how little of the mission was carried out. While he knows from many experiences that 12 year olds are incredibly resilient, he also knows that they have limits. There’s only so much damage a child can take before he gives up. That’s what Bruce is afraid of: Tim might— _may already have_ stopped fighting. Honestly, in many ways he’s surprised that the boy has lasted this long, even retaining spirit and personality. But he has no idea what condition the child will be in now, and Bruce can only hope that _this time,_ he won’t be too late.

The flash of headlights on the rear window startles Bruce from this depressing train of thought. The road they’re on is hardly ever occupied, especially at this time of night. He looks out and realizes that the vehicle is gaining rapidly, nearly on top of them by this point. He spins around, mouth open to ask the driver what’s happening, when the first impact sends him spilling forward. Before he can right himself, a blow comes to the side of the car, sending it spinning. Somewhere in this confusion, Bruce’s head is slammed against the far door and the floor. Despite years of training, he’s only human, and there’s no fighting the wave of darkness that floods over him. As darkness engulfs him, Bruce wonders fatalistically if this is it: he’ll die not by some crazed maniac or combat injuries but from a simple car collision.

\---

He wakes up in the darkness, instantly alert and thoroughly disoriented. There’s cloth over his head, causing the lack of light. Working hard to still his breathing, Bruce listens hard, gathering all the information he can from that sense. There are two people, probably men since they’re supporting Bruce’s considerable weight. The footsteps echo off the walls, painting the scene: stone floors and walls, high ceiling, almost definitely a hallway from the sound. Scent tells him that wherever they are, it is damp and musty. _Most likely underground,_ he concludes.

As soon as he’s gotten all he can from this method, he begins to fake waking, using the motion to test just how alert the two guards are. The tightening of grips gives him that answer, and Bruce stops struggling, allowing his breath to become rapid and shallow, as though he is a thoroughly scared, helpless aristocrat.

Just as suddenly as the impact in the car occurred, Bruce is shoved forward, landing hard upon his knees. Already, he can feel the cold tiles through the thinner fabric of his suit. The cloth is ripped away, and he squints hard against the harsh, artificial light. Blinking rapidly, he looks around, trying to gain his bearing.

He is in a large atrium, almost blindingly white with limestone. There are several doors on the walls around, but other than the two people behind him, no one else is on the floor. Above him, just high enough to force one to look up, a sort of gallery has been set up, stadium style seating on three sides of the room. The seats are nearly all filled with people of all ages and types in expensive (even by his standards) clothing. Every single one of them wears a white mask—stylized barn owls staring down with black, hollow eyes.

“Welcome, Mister Wayne, to The Court of Owls,” comes a nondescript voice from the galleries. “I hope your ride wasn’t too…uncomfortable.”

“What happened to my driver?” Bruce asks, stalling for time. He can’t seem to pinpoint which person spoke between the echoing and the masks.

“I’m afraid we could not leave any witnesses. Discretion is vital to our order. I’m sure you understand.”

Bruce tries hard to not show any reaction, even though the dismissive tone rankles him. “I see…”

“Enough formalities.” A new voice, but this one is definitely more feminine. “You are here, Mister Wayne, because The Court wishes to extend an invitation to you. Once before, your ancestors were leaders in our Parliament. Now we are offering you a chance to accept your birthright and claim your place amongst us. The Court of Owls seeks only the best and brightest—those who will keep Gotham’s best interests at heart.”

“Oh.” Bruce isn’t sure how to respond without blowing his cover. “Well, I’m…I’m honored. Truly.”

According to the plan, he was supposed to set off a beacon upon entering, alerting Nightwing and Batgirl to his whereabouts. However, because of the crash, he hasn’t done so…though he assumes that they’re probably tracing the emergency beacon in his clothing. Because of the unexpected nature of his arrival, Bruce is unsure of how much time has passed. He needs to give them as much time as he can.

“I’m surprised,” he says earnestly. “There are so many of you, and yet the city still thinks of you as a children’s tale. How have you managed this?”

“That is, in part, due to your ancestor, Alan Wayne.” The first person explains. “He was a great supporter of ours. Every building he designed was built to give us access. Thanks to him, we have been able to see into the very heart of Gotham, to better direct and lead it.”

“Of course,” the second person adds. “We have also our Talons to thank for this anonymity. The most elite of assassins, handpicked from childhood and trained by The Court. They do our bidding without impunity, Mister Wayne. What is it the nursery rhyme says? ‘Speak not a whispered word of them, or they’ll send Talon for your head’. That, at least, is accurate. Discretion is our greatest strength.”

Suddenly, from the back of the gallery, there is a small commotion, followed by movement, as someone makes their way to the front of the seats. The person does not acknowledge Bruce at all, leaning over to speak softly to one of the figures—the leader, Bruce guesses. Then the person retreats, and the leader stands up sharply, walking to the railing and looking down imperiously at him.

“It would appear,” he announces in a loud voice. “That we have been betrayed. Intruders have been detected in the tunnels, lead here by a signal…coming from Mister Wayne’s person. Talons have been dispatched to deal with these fools, but there remains a snake in our midst.”

There are murmurs from around the room, and Bruce works hard to come up with a new plan. Currently, he is Bruce Wayne, an untrained billionaire. If he wishes to keep his identity secret, he cannot respond like he would as Batman. Bruce Wayne does not know how to fight, not in any real manner. He might get in a few lucky hits, maybe block some, but he can’t do more than that. It’s infuriating, but he’s truly stuck waiting for help to arrive.

\---

_He’s not sure of what’s happening right now. Up until about ten minutes ago, he’d been fighting (and losing) a sparring match. Really, it’s more of a fight to the death. His death, because the opponent is one of the nameless undead Talons. Regardless, you can call anything “training” when death isn’t the end of it._

_But then someone had come in—he’s not sure who, because he was busy trying to force air into his lungs during the respite—and then the Talon was dismissed and he’s being dragged and dumped back into a cell._

_Honestly, his breath still isn’t really back now. He’s pretty sure that a rib’s fractured, and the stitches have already pulled out—he’d tried so hard to get Alfred to take them out_ before _he had to leave for this exact reason—and from the way his vision keeps going in and out, there’s probably blood loss to contend with. He’s pretty certain that if he just sort of_ ignores _everything, he won’t last long. But it’ll take too much time and he won’t be dead long enough to avoid coming back. So he tries to patch everything up as best he can with shaking hands and no real supplies._

_Something is happening, he can tell. People have been running past intermittently for several minutes. He watches disinterestedly as they pass, only becoming alert when he recognizes Cobb’s all-too-familiar-self coming down the hall. The man looks at him with disgust before opening the door and jerking him up from the ground._

_“Looks like you’ve got more luck than most,” The man snarls, roughly propelling them both out of the cell and down the hall. “You’ve got a chance to redeem yourself, to_ them, _at least. Waste of time if you ask me. You’re no Talon, anyone with a brain can see_ that _!”_

_There’s no point in responding, because it’s already hard enough to keep his feet under him and breath—Cobb’s got the collar of his tunic twisted up in his fist. The man keeps bitching, cruel words that mean nothing. It’s not even new, and he’s got more important things to focus on._

_He can recognize the door up ahead and if he had enough oxygen, he’d be really worried. Every time he’s been in that room, it’s ended horribly: the_ first time, _it was the same night his parents were killed. After that, notable occasions have included the being assigned that first murder, every time he’s_ fucked up _the following murders, and, most recently, when Cobb showed back up. So yeah. He’s really not happy to be heading that way._

 _When they reach the door, Cobb stops abruptly, dropping him like a sack of rocks. He manages to regain his footing without hitting the ground…though he_ does _hit his head against the wall hard enough to turn his vision black for an instant. He glares at Cobb, who just looks disgusted, then shoves a bundle at him, hard. It’s his Talon gear, sans hood, which is less than comforting. He quickly puts the gear on, trying to to fumble or react to the twinges of pain that come with the frantic motions, all the while listening to Cobb’s less than helpful instructions._

 _“_ They _have need of an executioner. You manage to do this simple little thing and you’re going to get back in their good books. Mess it up, and I have the_ pleasure _of…taking care of loose ends. And believe me, when that happens...well, let’s just say that you’ll be begging for it long before I end you.”_

_Of course, aside from the threats, there’s a lot left for him to worry about_ _. If they want someone dead and it’s enough to redeem him, then that means there’s something awful to it, something that’ll make it hard and painful enough to serve as the punishment he’s earned._

_He doesn’t have time to try and think of anything more, because Cobb is opening the door and literally shoving him through it. Now he knows. And all he can think is “No, no, no, nonono!” Because this shouldn’t be happening._

_\---_

Of all the scenarios Bruce has thought of, this one never occurred to him. There’s no way he could have imagined things going downhill this fast. But, on the plus side, he’s found Tim. Granted, the boy looks half-dead, swaying slightly and definitely favoring his right side, the entire plan has been derailed, and Bruce has absolutely no way to intervene in anything that happens now.

The leader is talking about loyalty and treachery, which seems fitting. Bruce isn’t listening closely. He’s trying to make eye contact with Tim, who’s looking everywhere _except_ directly at him. The speech seems to be reaching a conclusion.

“…prove your worth,” The statement is punctuated with a slamming fist. “Treachery is _not_ tolerated.”

Tim’s head snaps up, face totally blank. And _finally,_ Bruce realizes what’s about to happen: he’s about to be executed, and Tim’s supposed to do it. The boy’s eyes narrow slightly, then flick over to Bruce and back again.

Then the boy walks over until he’s more or less face-to-face with Bruce. Up close, it obvious that he’s in a great deal of pain; Bruce can see several rends in the fabric, injuries peeking through them. Tim stares at him intently for a second, frowning.

“ _Run,”_ he hisses softly. Then he spins around, blade flying through the air like a deadly blur. It hits the speaker fully in the chest, sending the person staggering back into the crowd. He follows up with two more blades aimed at the guards. Noting that Bruce still hasn’t moved, Tim nods toward one of the doors. “That door! There’s less people that way. _Go!_ ”

Before anything more can be said, two things happen at once. The first is that the door that had just been indicated flies open, slamming against the wall. Bruce is relieved to see Nightwing and Batgirl racing in, looking relatively unscathed. The second is that the door Tim had come through is also opening and there are Talons flooding out of it, swarming like angry ants.

“Holy shit!” Nightwing shouts, running past them both to intercept the horde. “They just never stop coming!”

Batgirl looks slightly annoyed and amused (which seems to be her default expression when it comes to Nightwing) as she goes to help Bruce up. “Come on, Mister Wayne, let’s get you out of here.”

She starts to “drag” him towards the exit, leaning in as they pass through the door.

“We’ve got your gear,” she whispers urgently. “Just gotta get away from the surveillance system, okay? Hey, you alright? You’re a little wobbly, B.”

“I’m fine.”

They rush through the hall and turn into a small room—closet, really. She shoves the kit at him, looking over her shoulder tensely.

“You good here? He’s not going to be able to hold them for long.”

Bruce nods in understanding. “Go, I’ll be fine. Thank you, Batgirl.”

She smiles and jogs out and down the hall. Bruce takes in a slow, deep breath as he puts on his uniform, feeling relief rush through him. He despises the feeling of helplessness that he has as Bruce Wayne, especially in situations like this.

A few minutes later, Batman leaves the room and races down the hallway. He reenters the atrium to a scene of utter chaos. There are Talons everywhere, making it hard to find his allies in the mess of bodies. Finally, he spots Nightwing, who’s backed into a corner, managing to keep a fairly good distance between himself and the assassins.

Batman starts across the room, fighting his way through the mass of bodies and weapons until he’s next to his former partner. Nightwing shifts so that they’re nearly back-to-back, and the two fall back into their rhythm.

“Hey, B. You good?” he focuses on the opponent, not sparing a glance at the older man.

“Fine,” Batman grunts as he throws one Talon back into the fray. “The others?”

“BG is supposed to be getting Tim out, but I don’t even know if there _is_ a way out anymore. The whole place is swarming with these guys!”

“Which way did they go?”

“I don’t know! I lost track of them in this mess. The comms aren’t working well, so I’m not able to reach her. Tim should know the way out though, right?”

Batman doesn’t get a chance to respond as another wave of Talons comes at them. Finally, he has the breath and space to say “we need to move.”

As soon as there’s a break, he and Nightwing head straight towards the nearest door. As they go, he tries to raise Batgirl, finally getting a static-filled signal.

“Come in, Batgirl!”

Finally he hears a response. “…re are you? We’re tra…can’t find…ou copy?”

“The signal’s weak, but I think I can trace it,” he announces, already pressing the necessary buttons. “Use the readout.”

They speed down the hall, already disoriented in this subterranean maze. The readout map keeps flickering with static, and Batman prays that it won’t fail until they reach the signal. Next to him, Nightwing stumbles slightly, regaining his footing swiftly.

“Are you injured?”

The younger man grimaces. “My leg, no. I just tripped. I think my shoulder’s in pretty bad shape, and I took a nice cut to the ribs, but nothing too serious. I’ve had worse.”

Before he can respond, they round the corner and Batman can see the familiar movement of Batgirl’s fighting style. There are at least two Talons, and she’s attempting to fight both of them in the narrow space. The problem is that they’re both using longer weapons, keeping her at arm’s length.

She hears them coming and starts edging back, leading the assassins directly into the path of the incendiary batarangs. They both find their marks, blasting the heads off of both attackers.

“Thanks,” Batgirl says, a little breathlessly. She swipes some gore off of her cheek. “We ran into seven of ‘em. The kid took out one, and I was doing pretty good with the rest until those two.”

Batman nods in understanding. “You were doing just fine. Where’s Tim?”

Batgirl nods towards the nearby door. “He looked ready to drop, so I asked him to go see if there’s a way out through there.”

Nightwing opens the door and heads in, the other two directly behind him. The room is large and poorly lit, with metal walls and pipes. He can hear the distant sound of machine fans, the hum as they power up and work to keep the systems from overheating.  From the doorway, it’s impossible to pinpoint where Tim is.

It’s too risky to just call for the boy, so they start making their way through the room, moving in formation. The air in this space is much colder than elsewhere, to the point where every breath stings and exhales come in little puffs. Nightwing imagines that it has something to do with the machinery, but he’s not sure what sort of equipment they’d have down here that required this sort of cold.

Finally, they reach another door, this one slightly ajar. On the other side is a much larger space, filled with foreign looking equipment, including glass chambers willed with a strange liquid.

Batman looks around with concern. “Spread out and stay alert. Use the comms to signal if you find him.”

He waits for the two younger vigilantes to acknowledge the command, then starts off on his own. In a matter of seconds, he can no longer see the other two. In the eerie blueish light, everything seems colder, though he knows this is an illusion. Moving between the rows swiftly, he rounds a corner and spots someone up ahead.

Using his experience and training, he moves slowly and silently, closer and closer until he can make out who it is. Relaxing slightly, Bruce lets out a breath and purposely scuffs his foot softly, calling out.

“Tim, are you okay?”

There’s no response, so he moves closer, noting the boy’s tense posture. It doesn’t seem directed at him though, so he walks over to stand next to Tim, who’s frowning, staring straight ahead. Tensing in preparation, Bruce follows the boy’s gaze to one of the liquid-filled chambers. It takes a second for him to recognize what he’s seeing—there’s a body suspended in the blue space, several tubes attached to it. Frowning himself, the man moves closer, trying to make out just what and who this could be.

There’s a small screen on one end of the setup, text and graphics displayed on it. He looks closer and realizes that it’s vital signs. He glances at the figure—it’s a man, he sees now, younger looking, but gaunt. It’s hard to make out any further details, so he turns back to check on Tim. The boy looks pale and almost nauseous in the unnatural lighting.

“What is this?” he asks, coming over and kneeling down so that he’s at eye-level. “Tim, do you know who that is?”

It takes him a long couple of seconds before the boy says shakily “A T-talon. I, um, d-don’t know his name… _if_ he h-has one. There’re others too, lots of them. These are the, uh, the mindless ones. They d-don’t have any sort of _personality.”_

“Okay. This…this is the army you were talking about, right?” Tim nods slowly, looking mesmerized. Bruce breathes out heavily, understanding what this means for them. “Alright. Are you hurt?”

“N-no.”

It’s a bald-faced lie, but there’s no reason to press it now. He presses the button to signal the other two, looking around. Now he can see the vague forms of more bodies suspended in each chamber around them. Batman tries to reach an estimation of how many there are, but realizes that there’s not enough information. Stomach sinking, he turns to look back at Tim, only to find the space next to him empty.

He looks around wildly, trying to find the boy. Finally, he sees the small figure near the end of the nearest chamber, crouched low. Feeling slightly angry that he let the child out of his sight, Bruce moves quickly to join him.

Tim has found a set of tubes, pipes, and cords that come out of the chamber, and he’s pulled on them until they’ve separated enough to make a gap. “Help me,” he says with gritted teeth, yanking hard on the bolt securing them. “They can’t survive without the chambers. Not yet. _Please.”_

Understanding exactly what the boy means, Bruce gently pushes the small hands aside, getting a firm grip on the tubes and pulling hard. It takes several jerks before he feels it give, and several more before it finally comes free, gushing blue liquid all over the floor.

Knowing that Nightwing and Batgirl are on their way over, Bruce risks a call.

“I need you to stop what it is you’re doing. There are Talons in these chambers. We need to disconnect them. There are cords at the base of each one. You need to get them disconnected _now.”_

“…Okay, B.” Nightwing sounds confused, but Bruce knows that the younger man will do what’s needed.

A second later, Batgirl’s voice crackles in his ear. “Roger.”

Feeling relief in knowing that those two are on it, Batman glances at Tim, offering a small smile. “They’re on it. We need to get a move on, okay?”

Tim nods, moving shakily back to his feet. Shaking off the hand extended to steady him, he starts running towards the next chamber, whispering “Let’s go then.”

Batman can’t help the surge of concern he feels as the boy disappears from view, but he knows this isn’t the time or place for such emotions. So instead, he follows, because Tim won’t be able to fully disconnect the chambers—he’s not strong enough.

When Batman catches up, the boy is eyeing the bolts angrily. “You get it, I’ll stand watch,” Tim commands in a sharp tone. Without waiting to see confirmation, he moves back past Batman and out into the space between chambers.

Swallowing his annoyance at being ordered around by a child, Batman focuses on breaking the bolt. When that’s finished, they move on to the next one, then the one after that. Soon they’re in a rhythm. After around ten chambers, it dawns on Batman that this is taking too much time.

Frowning, he looks over at Tim. “These aren’t the ones like Cobb, correct?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Do you know where those are?”

“Yeah,” Tim comes walking back into view slowly, leaning against the chamber ever so slightly. “Through the room at the end of this one.”

Clearly understanding what Batman means, he starts to head towards it, the vigilante hot on his heels. As he moves, Batman sends out a new command to his allies: “Take all the explosives we’ve got and set this place to blow. Meet us in the atrium.”

He moves to pick up the pace, only to realize that Tim is already struggling to keep their current rate. After considering for a second, he gently says “We need to move faster, son. Here.” He lifts the boy up. He’s small enough to be held bridal-style without any struggle. Honestly, Bruce could probably hold him with one arm if needed. “You direct and I’ll do the running, okay?”

“…fine.”

Relieved that he doesn’t have to argue the point, Batman runs towards the end of the room, where there’s supposedly a door. It takes several seconds to _find_ said door, but thankfully this is the only obstacle on this side of the door.

Once he’s on the other side, he takes a moment to look around. It’s a well-lit room, and the first thing that catches his eye is a surgical table, pristine to the point of almost gleaming. It feels like no one has used this room, though he knows there’s no way that this is true. Moving forward, more things come into view, things that remind him how much of an illusion this is.

There is a chair, much like a dentist’s, but the straps and buckles tell a different story. And there are stains that most certainly aren’t from anything as innocent as a root canal. There are tools there too, the sort that cause pain instead of heal. Everything is neat and clean and such a juxtaposition to its meaning.

“You’ve got to go through that wood door over there,” Tim’s voice brings him back to the situation at hand. “It’s just past the, uh, the tubs at the end of the room. See?”

Bruce _can_ see what he’s talking about: two metal basins—the sort that were used for laundry back in the day. They’re far deeper than they are wide, and he doesn’t have to work hard to imagine what they could be used for. Unconsciously, he pulls Tim in tighter, so much so that the boy lets out involuntary gasp of pain. Bruce grimaces, loosening his hold and muttering “sorry”. He hurries through the room after that, not wanting to stay in this place. Mentally, he scolds himself for letting his emotions get in the way like this.

The space they come into now is immense, made with the same white limestone as the atrium. High-vaulted ceilings give the feeling of endlessness. There are large stone slabs set in rows throughout the space, and after a second, Batman recognizes them as sarcophagi.

Tim squirms against him, wanting to be released. Somewhat reluctantly, he sets the boy down, still scanning the place. As soon as he’s got his bearing, Tim is off, moving swiftly to the nearest slab.

“ _These,”_ he announces, shoving against it. “Are where the _best_ Talons are left to rest ‘til needed.”

There’s a seam, barely visible, and Batman realizes that it must be a lid. He moves forward and helps the boy slide it off. It’s incredibly heavy and lands with a resounding slam that makes them both wince.

He peers inside and sees what may be the most bizarre thing he’s ever laid eyes on. There’s a man in the coffin, arms crossed over his chest like a mummy. The face is ageless, almost to the point of being unnatural. There are tubes connected to him, strange liquids flowing through them. He looks closely at the still form, trying to detect the rise and fall of breathing, but there is none.

“They’re not dead. But they’re not alive. Like Cobb.” Tim says, looking at the figure with disgust. “They pump you full of that stuff ‘til you don’t need blood or air. Then you can ‘serve The Court for eternity’.”

Bruce knows that this is what was planned for the boy—this limbo between life and death, an eternity of service to an order of terrible people. He sympathizes entirely with the disgust—he’s feeling it too.

“How do we kill them, Tim?” he asks, because he really doesn’t wish to wake these ancient assassins. The “mindless” ones are hard enough to deal with, he really doesn’t need more complications.

“I…I don’t know.” Tim sounds weary. “I didn’t even kill Cobb, remember?”

“Okay, well, if we took off their heads, would that work?”

Tim shrugs. “I s’pose so.”

“Alright,” Bruce announces, having made a decision. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take care of these…Talons, but I need you to head back into that main room and find Nightwing and Batgirl. You three need to get out of here as soon as possible, okay? I’ll be out as soon as possible. Can you do this?”

“But—“

“I _need_ you to do this for me.”

Tim looks torn, but he nods slowly. “…okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Bruce should have seen this all coming, but in his defense, up until several weeks ago he didn't even believe that The Court of Owls was a real thing. So we'll cut him a little slack here.  
> Probably not the best chapter, I dunno. Ya'll are normally much kinder judges than I am! Regardless, I have a lot of ground to cover still before the end of this, so I didn't want to linger too long over anything particular. There will be emotions and such very soon, I promise!  
> I wish you all a wonderful new year. Thanks for reading!


	15. Seeing is Believing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason FINALLY gets to know what's been happening and he really hates staying home with nothing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017, everyone!

Jason fidgets, feeling restless and tense. He _hates_ being stuck at home, hates it even more right now when there’s no way of contacting everyone in the field, no way of know what’s happening. The last thing they’d heard was from Dick, saying that they were heading in. Nobody’s heard from Bruce since the car crash. Alfred is tense too, but he’s much better at faking calm than Jason. Jason’s been pacing and fidgeting since _before_ Dick and Barbara had left, and now he’s discovered this instinctive desire to bite his nails.

In an effort to _not_ do that, he’s been monitoring all the systems, hoping to find a signal that’ll get through to wherever his family is. It’s been over an hour since they’ve heard anything, and he can’t stop imagining all the things that might have happened. Biting his bottom lip, Jason scrolls back through the cameras and signals, holding his breath, just in case there’s a faint signal that he can’t hear otherwise.

As soon as he’s reached the end, he starts scanning and scrolling again, almost obsessively. He can hear Alfred from somewhere behind him moving around—prepping the med bay, probably. Jason _really_ hopes that they won’t really need it. Not for anything more serious than a few cuts and stuff like that.

It’s a stupid hope, he knows. He’s seen the scars Tim has and the injuries that both Dick and Bruce got from that ambush. There’s no way that _all of them_ make it back in good shape. But Jason can hope, right?

He’s been stuck hoping a lot for the past few weeks. Honestly, Jason wasn’t half as upset with Tim selling them out as his father and brother were. He gets it—sometimes you make decisions that are shitty because you want to stay alive. He’s made plenty of them living on the streets, the sorts of choices where somebody always got hurt but there were no other solutions. And he’s seen the look Tim gets sometimes when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking—desperate, calculating, and totally terrified. Jason knows that look, he’s had it himself. So when they (finally) told him what had happened, he’d gotten over it a lot faster than everyone else did. So then Jason was stuck waiting and hoping that his family would forgive the kid, that they’d find a way to save him. He knew that when Bruce set his mind to it, it’d happen, but he’d had to wait for that to happen.

Now he has to wait and hope that they all make it back okay. Jason _hates_ waiting. Sighing in frustration, he starts back through the signals again, stopping when he reaches the one for the Batmobile—it’s open.

“Hey,” Dick’s voice cuts through the static, startling Jason a little bit. “Hey, anyone there?”

“Are you guys okay?” Jason blurts, skipping protocol. “What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in later, kiddo. Jay, do me a favor and make sure Alfred’s got that med bay ready. We should be there in about five.”

He signs off, leaving Jason to stew in his own thoughts, because Alfred was already listening in, and there’s no need to relay useless messages. Needing something to take his mind off of the increasingly dark images in his head, Jason decides to grab himself a drink from the fridge. As he does so, it occurs to him that that might be helpful—having cold drinks waiting for everyone. He grabs four more out, carrying all of them back to the desk to wait.

In what’s probably a lot less than the estimated five minutes, the Batmobile comes screeching in, skidding to a stop. He watches as Dick and Barbara both scramble out of the vehicle, Dick holding tightly onto Tim. Jason can’t tell from his angle how hurt everybody is, or if Tim’s even alive, but he stops himself from running over—he’ll be in the way, and if the kid _is_ alive, then he’s probably pretty hurt, so Jason should try to not get underfoot.

He hangs back, watching everyone moving around. It takes him less than a minute to decide that this is a shitty vantage point—he can’t tell what’s happening at all. Finally, Dick moves back from whatever’s going on and sits down hard on one of the beds. He glances up and gives Jason a weak grin, which he figures means that he can come over.

Jason grabs one of the bottles and half walks, half jogs over to the bed. He offers the bottle to his older brother, noting that Dick’s got a pretty nasty shoulder injury that he’s clearly ignoring.

“Thanks, Jay.” Dick says after chugging more than half of the drink. “’S good.”

“Are you gonna get your shoulder fixed?” Jason asks, knowing his brother’s tendency towards ignoring things like that. “It looks bad.”

“Yeah, in a minute. Jus’ gotta catch my breath.”

“You better.”

Dick snorts and rolls his eyes. He finishes the bottle, probably because it keeps him from having to respond at all.

“Hey,” Jason says, realizing that someone’s missing. “Where’s B?”

“Um, he’s making a pit stop. Gotta get a start on rounding up those psychos, y’know? Before they can skip town or anything. He’ll be back as soon as he can.”

“Oh.” Relief floods over him. “Good. He’s okay too?”

“As far as I know. Honestly, I think my shoulder’s probably the worst injury anyone got in the fight. Tim was…already pretty beat up when we got there, so…” Seeing the look on Jason’s face, he hurriedly adds “He’s gonna be just fine though. Promise.”

Jason nods, not entirely convinced. He doesn’t believe promises like that, not until he’s got proof.

\---

Commissioner James Gordon has had a rough few weeks. First, there were all the assassinations with no evidence, which had to be explained and a terrified public that had to be pacified. Then the deaths stopped just as suddenly, and now he’s stuck explaining why the GCPD still has no leads. Between detectives who are totally at a loss and reporters that are sadly far-too informed, he’s dead tired and sick of the whole thing. Maniacs and masked vigilantes he can handle, regular old murders are a lot less easy.

So when he comes back from refilling his mug of coffee for the fourth time this night, he’s totally resigned to the fact that Batman has let himself in through the window.

“How can I help you?” Jim says, wishing that there was something stronger in this mug. “And you better not have destroyed my window screen.”

Batman chuckles darkly. “Rough night?”

“Try month. Or year. Your pick.”

“Well, I’ve got something that may help.”

The Dark Knight tosses a thick folder onto the desk. Jim sighs and takes the folder, skimming through it. After a few seconds, he puts the mug down to use both hands, looking over the papers with increasing interest.

“Where did you—never mind. This is connected to the murders too? Dear God.” He shakes his head at the enormity of the task at hand. “I take it that we need to hurry?”

“You do. I’m afraid that many of them will be trying to leave the country after tonight.”

“Of course they are. I’ll get right on this then. And these, ah, ‘Talons’, they’re behind the deaths themselves?”

“I’m afraid so,” Batman says, sounding tired. “To my knowledge, they no longer present a threat. My associates and I took care of that. ‘The Court’ trained them and then sent them to carry out their dirty work.”

“I don’t want to know what you did, understood? I can’t pursue things I don’t know about.”

Abruptly, the vigilante asks “Do you remember the Drake family?”

“Yes, of course. Both parents dead in their own house, their son missing. We never did find out what happened to him, poor kid. Why?” he asks, suddenly apprehensive.

“I found him.”

 Jim nods, not feeling too surprised. “I see. There’s a connection to these cases, then? Where’s the boy now?”

“He’s with someone I trust. I imagine you’ll be getting a call from them shortly.” He hesitates, then proceeds carefully. “You’ll find the information regarding both the murders and his abduction in there. These… _people_ sanctioned the crimes, as well as the recent assassinations. All the Talons were trained from childhood…”

“Oh God…that’s why they took him, isn’t it? Jesus.” Now he _really_ wishes that there was something stronger in his drink. “And the parents?”

“As far as I can tell, they had agreed to the arrangement before the boy was even born. It’s unclear if they changed their minds at the last second, or if The Court wanted to ensure that there were no witnesses.”

Jim honestly can’t find any pity in him for people who did things like that to a child, and it takes a lot of self-control to not say so out loud. So instead, he lets out a long breath of air, trying to wrap his mind around all of this.

“Couldn’t you bring me good news every now and then? I mean, really? Secret organizations, mass conspiracies, corrupt officials, assassins, _kidnappings_? This is going to be a nightmare, and I don’t mean just publicity-wise!”

Batman smiles, clearly recognizing the humor behind the complaint. “Well, I’d hate for you to be bored, Jim. Good luck though. And maybe lay off the coffee? I hear it’s bad for your health.”

“Uh-huh, like you’re an expert on health. Alright, I’ve got a lot of work to do, so get on with the disappearing mysteriously crap and let me deal with these scumbags.”

He doesn’t turn around to see if the Dark Knight has left yet—he’d given up on that _years_ ago. Instead, he chugs the rest of his coffee, sends a text to let Barbara know he won’t be home tonight, and marches down to the bull-pin. There’s a lot to be done and very little time.

\---

By the time Bruce makes it to the cave, everyone aside from Alfred is gone. The butler raises an eyebrow at his arrival.

“Before you ask, sir, kindly answer this: will you require medical assistance? Because if not, I, for one, feel like any sort of ‘debriefing’ shall best be done over a nice cup of tea. Preferably upstairs, as it’s quite cool in here.”

Bruce grins ruefully. “No, old friend, I think I’m fine. Possibly concussed, but fine. Where—“

“Young Master Timothy is safely in bed upstairs, as well as Master Jason, hopefully. Miss Gordon went home, and I _believe_ Master Dick said something about driving her there.”

“Thanks.”

The butler nods and heads upstairs, presumably to start the water for tea. Bruce quickly gets cleaned up and dressed. He does take the time to check for injuries, before jogging upstairs. As much as he trusts Alfred and _knows_ that his kids are safe, he has to see it for himself.

Jason’s room is closer to the stairs, so he cracks the door to check on the teen first. As soon as his eyes adjust to the near dark, he realizes that Jason is not, in fact, in his room. Frowning and with an unreasonable spike of fear in his chest, Bruce hurries to check Tim’s room.

There’s a lamp on in there, presumably so Alfred can easily check on the boy. By the light, he can see both Jason and Tim asleep on the bed. The larger boy is curled protectively around the younger one, managing to look slightly defiant even in sleep.

Smiling fondly, Bruce walks over and gently adjusts the blankets so that both boys are covered. He also moves Tim’s arm out from under the blankets to ensure that the I.V. isn’t ripped out during the night. The boy doesn’t stir, totally unconscious from exhaustion and, Bruce is willing to bet, some painkillers. Jason, however, does shift, moving his head to look blearily up at the man.

“When’d you ge’ back?”

“A little while ago,” Bruce replies, brushing some hair away from the boy’s face. “Okay, kid?”

“Mmm,” Jason sighs and shifts again to be more comfortable. “Was worried. Dick said you were okay, but…you know. Wan’ed t’ be sure.”

“Well, I’m fine. Why’re you in here, Jay? Alfred said you went to bed.”

“Did. But he was havin’ a bad dream or somethin’, so I came in here. ‘S warmer too.”

“I can stay with him if you want to go back to bed,” he offers, already knowing his son’s answer.

“Nah, ‘m good. Night, Dad.”

“Good night, Jay.”

He stays for a little while longer, just watching both boys sleep. There’s something reassuring about listening to the slow, even breathing of a sleeping child, Bruce discovered years ago, and it helps calm his nerves now, after the long, arduous night and the fear and stress of the past few weeks.

Eventually though, he leaves, though somewhat reluctantly. He shuts the door quietly, trying not to disturb Jason—he’s a light sleeper—and then heads downstairs. As tired as Bruce is, he knows that there is still much that needs to be done and arranged before he can rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never had the chance/interest to try writing Commissioner Gordon before, so let me know what you think! Anyway, I felt like we all needed a little fluff and some slower scenes after the doozy of a chapter we just had.  
> Two chapters in as much time? What?!? My goal is to get the story finished before school starts again, but we'll see how that goes. I'm thinking we'll have about 20 chapters when it's all said and done. But I'm not done with this universe yet! There will definitely be a sequel, and maybe some one-shot type stories as well. I really want to get Damian into all this :D


	16. Scheduling Conflicts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce forgot that he had agreed to attend a party, leaving him scrambling to come up with a plan.

__The next week is thoroughly exhausting for everyone. There are numerous forms to be signed, people to speak to, and far too many reporters looking for an interview. It is, in a word, miserable. By Wednesday, Bruce has spoken to four doctors, at least three different police officers, one FBI agent, and two social workers. It takes a lot of self-control to not make any caustic remarks about the sudden urgency to do _something_ about Tim Drake. _As though there weren’t already two years for that._

He manages to swallow these remarks, which is good, because Jason doesn’t. The boy has actually been banned from talking to anyone after he told one of the investigating officers to go fuck himself. The sentiment was, in all truth, shared by both Dick (who managed to not say anything) and Tim (who just looked miserable and barely answered questions), but since Jason was the one to talk, he was the only one to get in trouble.

Finally, the paperwork was finished and Bruce suddenly found himself legally responsible (“for the time being”, one social worker said) for Tim. Despite having gone through the entire process (minus the FBI and doctors) twice with his older two, he was still thoroughly disoriented with the abruptness of the entire situation. He’s still not sure how Tim, as the entire focus of this endeavor, felt—the boy had been understandably withdrawn and silent through the whole thing, no doubt trying to reconcile the entire situation with his past experiences and recover from the newer injuries he’d received. In all truth, he was supposed to stay in bed until Saturday at least, though it’d been nearly impossible to keep him there since Tuesday afternoon.

Bruce was pretty inclined to just give the fight up—he’s had enough arguments of this nature with stubborn little boys to know that there’s no winning it. But, while Tim is definitely no delicate flower—or, in Jason’s words, he is “a huge pain in the ass”—he’s still child who’s recovering from a harrowing ordeal, with all the physical (and emotional) damage that goes with it. So, in the end, Bruce had suggested that the boy be allowed out of bed as long as he was with a responsible adult (read: not Jason) and listened to Alfred regarding what he could and couldn’t do.

There’d been some protest, mostly from Jason, who said he _was_ responsible, thank you very much, and Tim, who didn’t see a point to it all—“I’ve already _died_ before, remember? This is nothing.” But in the end, Bruce had won, though that little piece of information had been rattling around in his head ever since.

And it’s this train of thought that occupies his mind as he grabs his jacket and heads out of the office, eager to get home after having to play the part of Brucie Wayne all day long. As he nears the elevator, Lucius Fox’s voice brings him back to present.

“You _do_ remember that you’re supposed to be at the opening for the museum’s new wing, right?” Apparently, he can interpret the blank stare, because the man sighs and says “The Natural History Museum is opening a new wing dedicated to preserving Gotham’s history. W.E. is the primary sponsor, and as such, _Bruce Wayne_ is supposed to be there. We did discuss this, oh… _three times_ in the last month, Bruce.”

“Oh… _right._ ” Bruce suddenly recalls the rather heated arguments over whether or not he should attend. “Sorry, Lucius. I’ve just been…busy, I guess.”

Lucius nods sympathetically—he’s one of the few people who had been made aware of the entire situation, as well as the person responsible for all the legal proceedings that had gotten Bruce custody so quickly. “I understand. But you’re gonna have to go to this, if only for a few minutes. I’m sorry, Bruce, but you’ve been confirmed for a month, and p.r.-wise, we’re not in a position where you’d have the sympathy needed to bow out. Keeping the whole thing low-key right now may have been a good decision—lord knows that boy needs time to adjust, but it has left the rest of the world out of the loop.”

Bruce groans and slouches slightly. “Fine. I’ll be there. Probably with Dick in tow—then, if I leave early, no one is going to be too upset.”

If his friend disapproves at all of his using his oldest son’s popularity to his advantage, he keeps it to himself. Instead, the man laughs and says “That it will. Alright then. I’ll see you there, I guess. Give my best to the kids.”

As the elevator chimes its arrival, Bruce gives a nod of acknowledgement and steps inside, sighing with relief as it closes, allowing him some solitude and time to gather his thoughts. _Of course Lucius is right—Bruce Wayne will have to be at the opening. But there’s no reason for Jason to be out that late on a school night, and there’s no way to justify bringing Tim, which means they’ll be left at home. There’s no problem with that…except for the fact that Alfred will have to act as chauffeur—the driving company has been loath to assign a new driver after the untimely demise of the last one._ He takes a slow, deep breath, feeling a stab of annoyance at the entire thing—it’s a ridiculous inconvenience, really.

By the time that he makes his way to the car (he drove himself today to ensure that Alfred could remain at the Manor), Bruce has made up his mind about the situation. He reasons that there should be no problem tonight: the boys can ride along when Alfred drops Dick and himself off, and they should both be in bed by the time the butler leaves to pick them up. _Besides,_ he chides himself mentally, _Jason_ is _almost sixteen. He’s more than capable of staying without adult supervision for the forty minutes it’ll take. And Tim should be out cold, not that he’s a particularly difficult child when awake. There’s no reason for all the worry._

He arrives home before Dick, which gives him time to brief the butler and ensure the cooperation of both children. Jason and Tim had apparently decided to take over the gaming room after Jason got back from school. When Bruce enters, both boys are sprawled out on the couch, watching some cartoon that looks vaguely Disney-esque.

Jason has homework scattered around his half of the couch, laptop resting on his lap, legs stretched out on the rest of the cushions, stopping just short of the far end. Tim has taken that part over, and is currently sitting at a strange angle that leaves his head resting awkwardly in the corner where the cushion and arm meet, wrapped in a blanket. Bruce’s neck aches in sympathy at the position, but the boy seems not to be the least bit bothered by it.

Jason notices him first—although Bruce is pretty sure that Tim was aware of his presence as soon as he’d entered, but had decided not to react—and grins over, giving a small wave.

“Hi! When did you get back? You wanna watch _Mulan_ with us?”

“About five minutes ago,” Bruce answers, smiling back. “And no, not right now, thanks. I’ve got a museum opening to get ready for.”

“Yuck.” Jason wrinkles his nose in disgust. “I don’t have to go, right? Tim ‘n me can stay here and watch movies, we won’t do anything stupid, _promise.”_

This brings a full-on grin to Bruce’s face and Tim raises his head enough to give Jason a skeptical look.

“What counts as ‘stupid’,” he queries, looking not so much concerned as he does confused.

“Oh, lighting the house on fire, having girls over, watching horror movies, eating _all_ the ice cream,” Jason lists off, enjoying the increasingly incredulous look on the other boy’s face. “Trying to do backflips off the bannister, um, probably anything that has to do with the stove...”

“No, you don’t have to come.” Bruce steps in before Jason can actually form any ideas (hopefully). “You’ll ride with us to the event and then come back here with Alfred.”

“ _Yes!”_ Jason crows, jumping off the couch and giving Bruce a hug. “Thanks, Dad. You rock!”

It’s very blatant flattery, although Bruce has to admit that it works pretty well. But he does a good job of rolling his eyes and giving a dry “you’re welcome” and patting Jason on the back. The teen lets go and bounds back over to the couch and flops down on the opposite end, nearly catapulting Tim off.

Bruce winces, already envisioning the many injuries that could occur and how he’ll lose custody just as quickly as he'd won it, because the social worker wasn’t a huge fan—and then he stops, because all that _actually_ happens is the boy giving a startled squawk and grabbing the side of the couch to stabilize himself. Jason mutters an apology and gets a glare back. Bruce leaves them to work it out, shooting Jason a look that says “be careful” and heads up to get ready for the long night ahead.

\---

By the time he makes it back downstairs, Dick’s made it home and clearly hasn’t gotten the memo about his new plan for the evening. He’s sitting on the couch between the younger two, absently messing with Tim’s hair—Bruce is still pretty amazed by the calming effect Dick seems to have on the boy—and occasionally nudging Jason with his foot. The young man gives Bruce a cheerful grin and says “Hey, B!”

“Hi, Dick. I take it you haven’t checked your texts?”

“Ah,” Dick grimaces and pulls his phone out. “Sorry, I had it on silent, I guess. Oh, here we—aww, do I have to?”

“Yes, you do,” Bruce replies without much sympathy. “Sorry, chum.”

“Fffiiinnne.”

\---

Three hours later, they all pile into the car, Jason loudly arguing that he’s old enough to stay behind. Dick’s waxing dramatic and claiming that the tie is strangling him, while Tim just looks slightly stoned. By Bruce’s standards, it’s a very pleasant ride—Jason stops complaining eventually and plays on his phone, Dick actually leaves him alone, so there’s no real bickering there, Tim is asleep almost as soon as they’ve pulled out of the driveway, and it’s probably the quietest ride that his family has taken in years, _literally._

The rest of the night is much like all other events Bruce has attended over the years—awkward small talk, much ass-kissing, subtle displays of power, and finger foods. Dick is his usual chatty self, which Bruce is thankful for, as it means he’s not forced to talk to as many people as he would otherwise. He does wish that there was champagne or something along those lines available at this event, but it’s one of the more “family oriented” type gatherings, so sparkling grape juice is as close as he can get.

Despite the general annoyance he always feels about being at these types of events, the time passes quickly—before he knows it, it’s going on ten and Alfred’s called to inform him that the car will be there in around two minutes. Breathing a sigh of relief, Bruce waves to get Dick’s attention and nods towards the door. As soon as he’s sure that his son’s gotten the message, he makes his excuses and heads for the door, thankful for the escape. He makes it out before Dick and stands in the cool night air, enjoying the sensation. A few seconds later, the younger man joins him, looking as relieved as Bruce feels.

“Oh man, I’ve never been so thankful for early bedtimes in my life. Just don’t tell Jason,” Dick says, already tugging his tie off. “I think my face is stuck like this.”

Bruce snorts and opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sound of his phone going off. Typically, he’d ignore it, but the ringtone— _Jailhouse Rock—_ tells him that it’s Jason calling. Frowning, he presses the button and answers.

“Jay? What’re you doing u—“

“You gotta come home _now,_ Dad.” Jason’s voice is breathy and panicked over the speaker. “How far away are you guys?”

“What’s wrong?” Bruce feels his stomach clench. “What happened?”

“I dunno! I heard something, so I woke up, and now I can’t get out of my room! The security system’s engaged.”

Dick sends him a worried frown and Bruce just shakes his head, focusing on the conversation. “Are you okay? Do you know where Tim is?”

“I don’t know!” Jason’s voice goes up a few octaves. “I woke up ‘cuz I heard him in the hall, but the door’s lock and I can’t get out and he’s not answering me and I can’t hear him out in the hall.”

“Alright, I need you to stay calm for me, okay? We’re leaving now. If the system’s engaged, then there’s probably a reason,” Bruce is secretly impressed with how calm his voice sounds. “So you need to stay put for me, okay son? Don’t try to get out. We’re on the way.”

“Okay. _Hurry.”_

As soon as the car pulls into view, Dick and Bruce are racing down to meet it, jumping in before the vehicle has even come to a complete stop. Before Alfred can say anything, Bruce is ordering him to drive as fast as possible to get home. The butler complies, not waiting for further explanation. As the car streaks down the street, Bruce can only hope that nothing has happened to the boys and that he’ll get there in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Don't know how well this flows, as I've been writing sporadically between classes. But hey! It's a new chapter!


	17. Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and implied torture.

There’d been a noise in the house; something small and soft and hardly noticeable. But Tim had heard it. And because he couldn’t dismiss the foreign sound, he’d gotten up to go see. But the hall was dark and empty and long and he wasn’t scared, just cautious, so he’d just stood there for a few seconds, trying to wake up all the way. And that’s when he saw the shadow—or rather, he thought he saw a shadow.

He’d probably jumped, because somehow he found himself stumbling back against the door frame and bumping the door itself with a solid thump when it hit the wall. A wild look around hadn’t produced the shadow again, so he’d decided to dismiss it as a trick of the dim light from the windows and his general tiredness.

Of course, that wasn’t really comforting, and his heart was still pounding as though hoping to free itself from his chest. And because since day one Tim has been told to “let us know if you need help” and “don’t deal with everything on your own”,  and he’s pretty sure that none of them are lying—Dick wouldn’t do that, right?—he’d decided to find somewhere (someone) else. He could hear Jason moving around, probably waking up from the slamming door, so that’s where he decided to head.

Only it didn’t work out that way. He’d been maybe two steps into the hall when the security alarm went off. It’d taken him a second to recall what that actually meant: all the bedroom doors would be sealed, along with the doors that let you outside. Remembering that, he’d sprinted over towards Jason’s room, only to find that the door had already sealed, as had the others in the hall. Jason was slamming his fist against the door and shouting something that was mostly indecipherable.

Tim’s about to answer when the draft hits him, cool air sending a shiver through his body. It’s coming from his room…and the window had been shut when he’d woken up. Tensing up, he moves slowly, silently making his way to the door to peer in. The window is open, curtains billowing in and out with the breeze.

Letting out a slow breath, he steps into the room, every sense alert for the cause. There’s something floating around the floor in the draft, wafting up and down in the cool air. Tim frowns and moves closer, trying to identify it. He snatches it out of the air, looks at it, and almost as quickly drops it like a hot iron. The white feather drifts lazily down to the floor, moving in a spiral as Tim turns and sprints towards the door.

The hall is silent, and he can feel his stomach clench. Breathing shallowly, he goes to rush towards Jason’s room, calling out for the older boy.

“ _Jaso-“_

Something drives into his side, cutting off the shout and sending him to the floor with a jarring _thump._ All the air goes rushing out of his lungs as his ribs creak under the sudden weight. Tim starts to struggle, trying to strike his attacker, but one arm is pinned between his body and the floor. He manages to land a blow to the person’s stomach, eliciting a grunt of pain and anger in response. The weight shifts and when he swings his arm again the attacker blocks the motion neatly, redirecting the energy into an armbar that snaps at least one of the bones in his forearm cleanly.

Before Tim has a chance to process and push past the searing pain, a hand slams his face into the carpet, pinning him. He’s struggling to breathe now, any strategic defense lost in favor of an instinctive panic as his brain registers the lack of oxygen. The weight shifts again, and then there’s the feel of breath against his neck and cheek as a pair of lips press against his ear and every word vibrates through his skull.

“Stop now, or I’ll bring your little friend out here to play.”

He stops struggling, feeling like his blood has turned to ice as the all-too-familiar voice continues.

“Good,” Cobb says, note of glee obvious in his tone. “As long as you behave, there’s no reason for me to involve him in this little chat—the boy hasn’t seen me here and he’s safe behind that door… _unless you want to involve him?”_

There’s not enough air in Tim’s lungs to give any response, but Cobb seems to take his panicked wheezing as confirmation. From down the hall, Jason’s voice can be heard, muffled and rapid.

“He’ll stay alive as long as _you. Don’t. Try. Anything_.” He punctuates each word with a slight increase of pressure against Tim’s head. “I trust you’re smart enough to understand what I mean.”

Tim _is_ smart enough to understand what the man means, and his eyes prickles with unshed tears of pain and frustration. But he doesn’t try to get free again—nobody is going to die because of him, not this time. They both stay still for a moment, before Cobb makes a satisfied sound and eases up.

“Good choice,” he says smugly, hefting Tim into a standing position. “Now, let’s find somewhere quiet to talk, shall we?”

And with that, the Talon strides off into the dark house, dragging the boy with him. Tim stumbles along, trying hard to keep up—Cobb’s still got ahold of his injured arm and the tension sends jagged, searing pain throughout his body with each jolt. He can hear Jason’s voice growing faint behind him as they move further into the still, empty halls.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that the man is talking again, sharp, angry words hissed into the silence. The focus seems to be gloating—“Thought you’d just get away with it, eh? Too bad your little friends couldn’t keep it all quiet.”—and threats—“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your actions. The Court wasn’t pleased: they gave me approval to deal with it how I saw fit.” Tim lets it fade back out after that, not really wanting to think about what was going to happen now.

His mind races desperately, trying to find a way out. But all he can think about is that they’d _promised. They’d promised that it was safe here, that he wasn’t going back to The Court. That they’d protect him._ It’s been years since he’s cried—it’d make his parents leave; it had been a liability in The Court—but now tears fall freely, blurring his vision.

As they reach the foyer, Tim panics for a moment, thinking that they’re heading for the door. But Cobb jerks him over to the right and into another hall. In a moment of clarity, Tim lets his foot drag on the rug as they leave the room, folding a corner up. He continues to do this to each rug they walk over, leaving a sort of trail behind. Somewhere in his mind, Talon is screaming that they need a plan, that there’s no way they’ll survive by relying on others. But he keeps doing it, _because they promised._

\---

Bruce’s heart is pounding in his chest, each thud slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. He’s holding his tablet and working to find the exact cause of the alarm remotely. Dick sits next to him, trying to reassure Jason over the phone. His oldest son’s voice is level, working to calm the younger boy. Jason’s voice can be heard over the speaker, shrill with panic. Bruce knows that his son is unharmed and that the fear isn’t for himself but for Tim—Jason is quite empathetic, though he’s always been quick to deny it. He wishes that there was any way he could calm his son’s fears right now, but all he could do was promise that they’d be home as quickly as possible.

Part of him wants very much to believe that this entire thing is just a misunderstanding: Tim could have just run away again, he could have inadvertently set off the alarm. The boy still had little reason to trust them, after all, and he’d run before. But Bruce can’t quite accept this, not after all they’ve been through. However, if this isn’t the case, then that leads him to the unavoidable thought: what happened? And this leads him to The Court of Owls—they’ve been disbanded, either arrested or fled…but what if they’re not?

Thankfully, _blessedly,_ he doesn’t need to go down that track further as the car skids on the gravel drive, sending a spray of pebbles flying. All three men jump out of the car before the rocks have even landed, racing up the steps.  Bruce had managed to override the security system seconds before they pulled up, and the door opens smoothly.

Inside, it’s silent and dark. Alfred takes the phone and runs upstairs without a word to go find Jason. Bruce and Dick stand in the hall, alert to any noise that may indicate the cause of this alarm. After a moment of silence, they start to check the house systematically.

Bruce walks towards the stairs, wanting so desperately to run up and see his son, to verify without a doubt that Jason is okay. But as he reaches the stairs, he stumbles. Frowning, he looks down and sees the corner of the rug has been flipped up, causing the unevenness that he’d caught his foot on. Sighing in exasperation, he nudges the rug with the toe of his shoe, settling it back in place. Making a note to remind the boys not to play with the rugs later, he turns to head up the stairs once more.

\---

Everything is pain and bright lights. The tang of iron and copper fills the air. Tim’s head is throbbing and his eyes burn. His throat feels raw, like he’s had his tonsils removed— _that’d been second grade. His parents were in Argentina. The school nurse had sent him to the hospital and the housekeeper had picked him up. He’d been back to school the next week, barely able to talk. Nobody noticed—_ he’s probably not going to be talking after this anyway, so it’s not that bad. He can’t scream anymore and it hadn’t helped to begin with—Cobb didn’t care about screams or pleas, he enjoys what he does.

_It’s not easy to remember anything right now, not even where they are. Home? The Court? No…it’s Wayne Manor, right? The greenhouse. It’s the greenhouse: everything smells like metal because of the fertilizer. Well, that and the blood._

He’s on his stomach, cheek pressed against the cool floor. Originally, he’d been trying to get away, hoping for an opening. But that hadn’t happened and then Cobb had started carving into him, that sort of thought had left his mind quickly. It’s been hours and years and almost no time at all— _900 seconds; hardly any time in the scheme of things—_ and he can hardly open his eyes now.

“Beware The Court of Owls,” Cobb is singing in an eerily calm, rough voice. “That watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you in your bed; speak not a whispered word of them, or they’ll send the Talon for your head.”

He’s been singing this for the duration, and honestly, Tim’s willing to bet that that’s what the man carved into his back—it’s dramatic and on-the-nose, totally Cobb’s style. Make sure that the song isn’t just seared into his mind, but that there’s no way to forget, even physically.

When Cobb stops, the silence is so foreign and jarring that Tim does open his eyes and tries to lift his head up. The action is a mistake, sending pain everywhere, nearly causing him to black out. He hears Cobb laugh somewhere from behind him, and the agony is replaced by the icy chill that sound always brings.

“Pathetic. I always said you were not fit to be a Talon,” the man gloats. He hauls the boy up, one hand pinning the uninjured arm and the other laced through the child’s hair. “Regardless, I think it’s time to end this.”

Still humming the tune under his breath, he frog-marches the boy over to the small, indoor fountain that stood in the center of the room. The fountain walls came up to Tim’s waist, with the basin nearing two feet deep. They stood right against the retaining wall.

“Do you remember when you threw me off a cliff and tried to down me?” Cobb said, leaning in close to speak directly into Tim’s ear. “It seems only fitting that I return the favor.”

And then he forces the boy’s head underwater.

\---

As soon as Bruce had seen for himself that Jason was just fine (and hugged the boy a little harder than necessary), his mind was back on finding the reason for the earlier lockdown and where Tim had gotten to. He started with the boy’s room, leaving Jason and Dick standing in the hall, their voices trailing after him.

The room was immaculate with the exception of the rumpled bedsheets. Bruce looks around, trying to find any sign of where the boy went. He frowns a little at the impersonal air of the space and makes a note to ensure that they get the kid some clothing and decorations when this is all over. Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that argues that the situation may never _be_ over, he checks the closet, shivering slightly at the cool breeze on the back of his neck.

Then the full implication of that reaches him, and Bruce whirls around to face the window. It’s open, chilly air billowing in, and Bruce is fairly certain that this is indeed the source of the alarm. He moves to shut the window and sees something floating near the baseboard. The man frowns and bends down to pick it up.

His eyes widen as he registers the feather, and he looks around wildly for any indication of where the boy had gone. Not finding any, he moves to the hall, scanning the floor for any signs of a struggle. Finally, his eyes catch something near the top of the stairs—it’s a sock, one that he recognizes as belonging to Dick. Recalling that Tim, who had no clothes as of yet, was currently stealing clothing from both older boys, Bruce takes the sock as an indication of the child’s presence.

Breathing in quickly, he heads down the stairs, calling to Dick over his shoulder. Bruce takes the stairs two at a time, stopping at the bottom, looking for anything else. Finally, he recalls the rug corner and looks around for any further clues. He’s rewarded with another rumpled rug down the hall on his right. He starts after it, following an almost invisible trail that he could only hope would lead to Tim.

Turning a corner, he hears Dick catching up behind him as he comes to a halt, unsure of where to head now. There’s no more messed rugs or discarded clothes to be seen, and Bruce is at a loss as to which direction to go. It’s a dead end, but there are rooms leading off either side, none of which look suspicious. Dick mutters a few swear words under his breath and he moves next to Bruce, his eyes searching for anything the man might have missed.

\---

 _There’s no air, no sounds. It’s peaceful, for an instant. And then there’s_ no air, _and burning, and he can’t move, can’t get out. He knows it’ll take him approximately 87 seconds to take that first inhale of water—he’s been held underwater until unconsciousness before._

_After 56 seconds, he’s not really there, oxygen too far gone to keep focus. And then he’s seven and locked out of the house, key forgotten at school, standing in the rain and shivering in the cold. And he’s nine and falls into the canal while trying to keep up with Batman, camera and coat dragging him down, lungs burning as he realizes that he can drown and no one will know._

_At 86.5 seconds, he takes that first inhale and feels water flooding his system. Reflexively, his body struggles, trying desperately, weakly, to surface and save him. It flashes past him that he’s very likely to die right now, and that he’s not coming back after this. His legs are kicking spasmodically, scuffing the ground with no real affect._

_It’ll be over in about 75 more seconds or so._

_\---_

There’s a noise from the hall on the right, and as soon as Bruce and Dick hear it, they’re both rushing towards it. At the end of the hall is the greenroom, a space that neither man regularly enters—it’s Alfred’s domain, mostly, though Jason has been known to frequent the place. The door is propped open and humid, warm air wafts out to great them.

Bruce is through the door first, looking around wildly for the source of the noise. He sees Cobb and it takes a second for him to recognize the man—he’d somehow assumed that the Talon had died during that terrible battle underground. But no, he’s alive, standing in the center of the greenhouse by the fountain. There’s blood all over the floor and more pooling under the man’s feet.

It takes Bruce an agonizing second or two to find Tim, his frantic search overlooking the small figure wedged between the Talon and the fountain. In all honesty, he has to follow the assassin’s intensely focused gaze to realize what the man was about.

Dick is faster on the uptake, and by the time Bruce has figured out what’s happening, the younger man is halfway across the room, barreling down on Cobb. Bruce rushes after, planning to follow up whatever his son does. The young man slams into the Talon, using the momentum to catapult the assassin into the far wall.

Trusting Dick to handle that, at least for the time being, Bruce moves quickly to the fountain. When Cobb had released the boy, Tim had fallen forward into the basin, dead weight pulling him under. Bruce jumps the wall and wades swiftly over to the unconscious child. He grabs the boy and drags him over to the wall and out.

He lays the boy down on the floor, checking desperately for any signs of life. Tim’s lips are blue, body limp and still. There’s no pulse when Bruce checks, so he begins chest compressions, counting under his breath. Two cycles in, there’s still no change.

“Come on,” Bruce mutters, continuing compressions. “Come on, Tim. Work with me. Come on, baby. _Breathe.”_

There’s clattering from behind and someone grunts. Bruce does his best to shut it out and focus solely on his objective: getting the boy in front of him to breathe again. He starts another cycle, whispering further encouragements as he checks for a pulse again. Finding none, he continues compressions. And then, so suddenly that it’s almost a shock, the boy is coughing up water, body heaving as he tries to expel the water from his lungs.

Letting out a shaky breath of relief, Bruce carefully moves the boy onto his side in a recovery position. Tim continues hacking, body jerking with each breath. His eyelids flutter, but remain shut. Bruce uses a hand to steady the boy, looking around for Dick and Cobb. Finally, he sees Dick come around from behind a row of trees.

The young man is breathing hard, blood soaking through his shirt and streaked on his face. He comes over to kneel besides both of them, trying to control his breathing.

“I’m okay,” he says, jerking his head in acknowledgment to the unspoken question. “It’s mostly his. We’re gonna have to figure out what to do with the bastard later. He okay?”

“He’s breathing.” Bruce fumbles with his pockets, trying to locate a phone. “We need to call an— _where is my phone?”_

“I’ve still got it,” Dick says, already pulling it out. “I’ll call, if you’re sure you wanna do it this way?”

Bruce nods, pulling his jacket off and draping it over Tim. “We’ll call the police; there’s no other way to explain what happened tonight without drawing suspicion. He’ll need to see a doctor.”

Dick nods and dials, ignoring the way his hands shake as he does so. Bruce nods his approval and returns his attention to Tim. The boy’s breathing is ragged and shaky, but it’s there, and that’s better than before. Sighing, Bruce rests a hand on one thin shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of each breath as he waits for the ambulance and prays to whatever forces are out there that this nightmare is almost over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played around a little with writing styles, so let me know what you think!  
> No clue when I'll post again. My plan had been to get this finished before March, but that's not going to happen. My grandmother is dying of brain cancer, and it's thrown everything out of wack. I just took two weeks off of school, missed a whole lot of papers and quizzes, and in general just derailed my normal life. I hope to have it all back together soon, but right now, being upright and functioning is about as much as I can do sometimes.


	18. Poor Judgement is a Sign of Sleep-Deprivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason deals with the trauma from that night in his own way.

Jason hasn’t been able to really fall asleep since everything that happened two nights prior. Every time he shuts his eyes, his mind is filled with images of owl-masks, blood spattered tiles, and pale, blue-tinted skin. So he doesn’t try to sleep; he keeps watch: staring at the monitors at live-stream footage of the Manor, or, during visitor hours, watching the bruises slowly fade on Tim’s face. He’s not a fan of hospitals, or the concept of visiting hours, especially since it means that _he_ doesn’t get to stay. Dick and Bruce do, because of some rule— _or maybe some money—_ that lets an adult stay in the room overnight.

Dick has already pointed out more than once that it’s not exactly exciting: Tim has been pretty much unconscious since arriving, hospital beds are horrible, and there’s no such thing as a full night of sleep in medical facilities. But Jason doesn’t care, because if he’s not _there,_ he can’t see for sure that Tim’s really okay, and _look what happened last time._

Right now, Jason’s pretending to read a book while he keeps Tim company— _Bruce has a meeting and Dick wanted to grab lunch—_ but he’s not able to focus on the page in front of him. His eyes are too tired to actually decipher the print and he’s distracted by the stupid machines beeping. And because the doctor had said that there was a good chance that the kid would wake up sometime today, every single time there’s a new sound, Jason looks over breathlessly hoping that _this time,_ there’ll be pair of gray eyes looking back.

But so far, he’s been there for over two hours, and all that’s really happened is Tim shifting restlessly a few times, like he’s having a bad dream. Jason’s cranky enough by now that this pisses him off—he’s supposed to let the boy wake up on his own, and nothing anyone’s tried so far has seemed comfort the unconscious child. It’s just a miserable situation all the way around, and Jason is getting fed up with the whole thing.

From next to him, Tim makes a sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a whimper. Jason growls and shuts his book. He looks around to see if there’s any nurse nearby—there isn’t—so he moves from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the wires that seemed to snake out everywhere. Shifting cautiously, Jason settles against the wall next to Tim, reaching over to brush hair out of the boy’s face— _it’s a compromise really: the kid’s pretty beat up._

After a few seconds, Tim shifts in his sleep until he’s resting against Jason, face pressed up against the older boy’s side. Jason sighs and reaches for his book, pretending that it’ll actually hold his attention better now. Whether it works or not, he’s not sure. But after a few minutes, his eyelids start to droop, the relative silence of the room and the warmth coming from the body next to him lulling Jason to sleep.

\---

Bruce walks towards the hospital room with a heavy heart. It’s been a rough few days, both for his family and logistically. The police have been exceptionally interested in the case, turning most of Wayne Manor into a crime scene and hounding Bruce for every single detail of that night. The social worker has been equally suspicious and is actively lobbying for Tim to be removed from Bruce’s custody, “for his own good”. The only reason she hasn’t yet succeeded is due solely to the excellent work of a team of lawyers.

All of this seems to hang over his head as he trudges forward to the door at the end of the hall. He moves to enter and pauses when he registers the scene before him. Jason is asleep on the bed, using his book as a headrest. But what _really_ captures Bruce’s attention is Tim.

The boy is sitting up, gray eyes watching the door warily. He relaxes minutely when he recognizes Bruce, even offering up a very slight smile.

“Hey,” Bruce says softly, entering the room. “You feeling better? How long have you been awake?”

“Dunno.” Tim replies in a painfully hoarse voice, shrugging slightly. He winces a bit when the motion puts strain on his wounded back.

“Okay. I should get the nurse.” Bruce sighs and doesn’t actually move to do so. “You’ve been out for a couple days. Gave us all quite a scare, Tim.”

Tim looks down, focusing on the bandages incasing his fingers, not meeting Bruce’s eyes. Then he suddenly seems to remember something, head jerking up in a panic. “Cobb. Is he—“

“He’s not going to be a problem anymore,” Bruce interjects quickly, hoping to reassure the boy. “It’s over. William Cobb is dead.” Noting the suspicious look shot his way, he adds “For real, this time. Promise.”

The intense look continues for a few seconds, but then Tim lets out a slow, shuddering breath, relaxing back against the pillows.

Bruce smiles slightly. “Okay, I’m gonna go get the nurse now. Maybe try not to talk for now, huh?” He glances at Jason, who’s still sleeping. “You wanna wake him up while I do that?” He waits for a nod and a slow, sly grin to show on the kid’s face, then exits the room, leaving Tim to the task at hand.

\---

The rest of the day is a blur as papers are finalized, exams are performed, and phone calls are made. Even though the hospital had been necessary at the time, Bruce is determined to get Tim out of there as soon as possible—there are too many unanswerable questions that are sure to come to light the longer he’s there.

If there’s one good thing to be said about money, it’s that it truly does open doors: between some well-placed donations and the fact that Bruce is fully capable of hiring the appropriate private medical care (if needed), they’re ready to leave the hospital before dinner that evening. The ride home is uneventful, with both Tim and Jason sleeping for a majority of it. Bruce is thankful, because he’s certain that everything afterward will not be half so easy.

Dr. Leslie Thompkins is waiting when they arrive, offering Bruce a sympathetic smile as she moves to follow him into the house. Tim manages to sleep through the entire event, barely stirring when the cold metal of the stethoscope comes into contact with his skin. When she’s finished, Leslie gestures for Bruce to follow her out of the room. Once in the hall, her expression grows serious.

“Well, you’ve certainly gotten yourself into a mess, haven’t you? Care to explain it to me?”

What Bruce _thinks_ is “No, not really.” But instead, he gives her the summarized version of everything that’s lead up to this point, being careful to omit the assassinations Tim had a hand it. It’s not that he doesn’t _trust_ Leslie, but he doesn’t want to put her in a position where she’s forced to compromise her morals.

“Okay…” It’s obvious from her tone that she’s probably figured out what he’s trying to do. “I don’t want to know more than that. Anyway, the good news is that, at least physically, he’s going to heal up just fine. But I’m a lot more concerned with his mental state. That boy’s been through hell, Bruce, and this sort of trauma doesn’t just go away. What do you plan on doing about it? Or about Jason, for that matter? He’s clearly not sleeping, even I can tell that. The whole thing was traumatic for him too.”

“They’ll be fine,” Bruce says flatly. “I’m _not_ bringing more people into this.”

For a moment, it looks like Dr. Thompkins is about to argue with him, but after a long stare, she sighs and shakes her head. “Fine, have it your way, Bruce; you always do. Now, as far as the immediate future goes, what Tim needs most right now is stability and rest. I’m recommending bedrest until next Thursday _at the very least._ Honestly, I’d be happier if he rested for the rest of the month. But I’m guessing that he’s not going to cooperate—twelve year olds rarely do.”

\---

Regardless of the direct orders from both Dr. Thompkins and Alfred, it’s only Tuesday morning when Tim starts trying to convince everyone—mostly Dick, who caves easily to the right amount of begging and sad eyes, and Bruce, who sympathizes with being forced to stay in bed—to let him get up and _do_ things. But, in all honesty, nothing had come of the begging—he’d ended up promising to help Jason with whatever he wants in return for being allowed out of bed when Alfred was shopping.

Jason had appreciated the offer (not that he needed it), and figured that technically, as the older brother, it’s his responsibility to enable Tim just a little bit, and anyways, he _still_ doesn’t really like not being able to see what the kid is up to, and that room is feeling claustrophobic after three days. So he’d agreed, on the condition that they did something that didn’t involve exercise. He’s still not sleeping most of the night, and Tim’s not supposed to be _out of bed,_ let alone running around the Manor.

They’ve set up on a couch in front of the T.V. and turned it on. Jason’s on his laptop, alternating between the research paper he’s supposed to do for school and his own personal project. Tim is watching the cartoon half-heartedly, shifting positions every now and then. He’d started upright, but after an hour, he’s managed to slide upside down, feet resting against the back of the couch while his head hangs off the edge.

“Dude, sit up,” Jason says without real heat. “You’ll hurt yourself and I’ll get in trouble.”

“’M not gonna fall.”

“You’ve got a ridiculous number of cuts that are gonna bleed if you keep it up.”

“Will not.”

“Seriously? Just…look, sit up so you can help me,” Jason says, trying to distract Tim into listening.

Tim slides all the way off the couch, landing with a thud that makes Jason wince. The kid doesn’t seem to notice though, and he climbs back onto the couch and crawls over next to Jason.

“What’re we doing?”

Jason frowns, trying to decide if this is actually a good idea or not. _Screw it._ “Okay, so I was looking through some of my mom’s stuff, right? Anyway, I guess she’s, um, not my real mom. Like, uh, not biologically?” He pauses to take a deep breath and get control of his voice. “So, anyway, I’m, uh, trying to find out who she was. My real mom, I mean.” _It’d been a distraction, a way to avoid thinking late at night, when nightmares woke him up. But now it’s something_ more.

“I think the term is ‘bio-mom’ or ‘birth mom’.” Tim offers helpfully, oblivious to Jason’s internal struggle.

“You know what I mean. Look, I’ve got three people she could be and I need help narrowing it down. And you promised you’d help me.”

“Okay,” Tim takes the laptop. “Lemme see. Why don’t you just ask Bruce? He’d do it.”

“Because he might feel like I’m not happy here.” Jason refrains from adding “duh” to the end. “And, y’know, it’s _my_ mom.”

He can tell that Tim still doesn’t get it, but the kid shrugs and starts typing. Jason sighs, feeling the nervous knot in his stomach tightening— _his mom might be alive somewhere. There’s no way Bruce or even Dick would get how much this matters,_ Jason’s pretty sure of that. _Actually, he doubts Tim gets it either, but out of everyone, he’s probably less likely to get upset or anything like that—he’s got the least emotional investment here._

It takes _forever—_ “ten minutes and twenty point 5 seconds, Jason”—but finally Tim announces that he found something. Jason snatches the laptop, ignoring the eye roll and sarcastic “you’re welcome” he gets for that. Eagerly, he starts reading through what Tim’s found.

“You take too long,” Tim says after two minutes. “Look, here’s what I got, okay? There’s three women, right? They’re all in, like, Africa and the Middle East. So there’s that. I can _probably_ look up medical records if you give me a few days.”

“Nah, I got it from here. Just thought using your big brain would make it go faster.” Jason shuts the laptop, mind racing with possibilities. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tim turns back to the T.V., looking confusedly at the cartoon playing. Jason sighs and starts chewing his lip, thinking about what to do know. He knows there’s no way that Bruce’ll let him travel overseas to try and find some lady who may or may not be his mom. But there’s no way that he’s going to just let it go. If he’s got a living parent out there, then he wants to find her. He can’t explain, even to himself, why he was so upset and desperate to connect with a woman he’d never met, but he knows that he _has to do this._

He turns his attention towards the T.V. in an effort to calm his mind. There’s a _Phineas and Ferb_ rerun on right now, currently at the part where the boys have finished their invention and the sister is trying to tell on them. It’s ridiculous how easy it is to predict the entire show, and Jason’s actually more annoyed by this than anything. Next to him, Tim slouches, apparently giving up on actually watching the show and tips over to rest his head against the armrest. His feet are pushing against Jason, which is already getting on his nerves.

“I was here first,” he says, poking the sole of Tim’s left foot. “Stop kicking me.”

“’M _not._ You’re warm.”

“That’s why they made socks. Jesus, how can your feet not be ticklish?”

“I don’t _have_ any socks, remember? And since you didn’t bring your laundry downstairs, there’s no clean socks in your room,” Tim explains primly, not moving his feet. “And the concept of tickling is totally in your head. You can ignore the sensation and it goes away.”

This, to Jason, sounds like a challenge— _although poor judgment like this is probably a side-effect of sleep-deprivation_. Since he’s already tested the kid’s feet, the most logical choice now is to launch a full-out tickle war. He’s got a good foot and several pounds on Tim, so it’ll probably be easy. He just has to be careful not to let it get out of hand. Of course, as soon as he goes to do this, he remembers what happened last time he’d pinned Tim.

He changes tactics and settles for poking the smaller boy in the ribs until he gets a reaction. After a few seconds, Tim shoves at his hand, muttering “stop it”. This, of course, does nothing to deter Jason, and after about two minutes, the entire thing devolves into a wrestling match. Jason, having weight and size on Tim, quickly starts winning and decides to continue his previous plan of tickling the kid—eventually it should incapacitate him, right? Thankfully, the combination of painkillers and not enough recovery time means that Tim doesn’t really have any advantages _or_ the ability to fight back.

“S-stop…it!” Tim forces out between laughing— _so he_ is _ticklish—_ and trying to get Jason off. “Seriously!”

“Nope!” Jason cheerfully replies, then jerks one hand back. “Hey, no biting!”

“Then get off!”

Unfortunately, the fact that they’re still on the couch comes into play when one of them (Jason) overbalances and sends both of them to the floor. Somehow, Tim lands on top, effectively winding Jason in the process. He scrambles off of the other boy and backs up a good foot or so. They both just sit there, breathing hard and eyeing each other.

Finally, Jason forces out “See? You _are_ ticklish.”

The glare he gets could melt the polar caps.

“You good?” Jason asks, undeterred. “I don’t wanna have to explain how it happened if you aren’t.”

“I really don’t like you right now.”

“Great! So, I’m starving. You hungry?”

Tim apparently recognizes that he’s not going to win this, so he nods grudgingly. Jason grins and hops to his feet, offering a hand to help the kid up. He gets a nasty look in response, but Tim accepts the help up.

They both head for the kitchen, making a pit-stop in Dick’s room to find a pair of socks. They’re way too big and the toes flop like a pair of clown shoes the entire way down the stairs. By the time they get to the kitchen, Tim’s no longer mad, probably because he’s too busy focusing on not tripping on the socks.

Jason’s plan is grilled cheese sandwiches, because who doesn’t like cheese? But this is waylaid by Alfred and Dick entering through the back door. Alfred had gone out for groceries, and Dick had apparently had the horrible timing to get there are the same time as the butler. He’s carrying all the groceries and seems to be using the “one trip or death” policy.

“I do hope you aren’t planning on ruining your appetites before dinner?” Alfred comments drily.

“Uh…no?” Jason looks to Tim for help but gets a shrugs, so he keeps going. “Um, we were just… _checking_ to make sure the cheese hadn’t gone bad! And, uh, whaddya know? It hasn’t, so…I’m just. Gonna. Put these back. Now.”

Dick snickers and sets the groceries on the counter. “You’re a really shitty liar sometimes, Jay. Um, Alfie? Where do the apples go?”

Alfred takes control of the kitchen, instructing Dick as to where to put the groceries and drafting Jason to help prepare dinner. Tim manages to avoid enlistment, instead receiving orders to not move so that Alfred can check his temperature. This seems to translate to him sliding so far down in his chair that only his eyes and the top of his head are visible over the counter.

Dick’s finished putting the food away by the time Bruce comes walking into the kitchen with purpose. Dick raises an eyebrow at the serious and slightly harried expression on the man’s face.

“Everything okay?”

Bruce sighs and gives his eldest son a tight smile. “More or less. Apparently, the lead detective on the Drake case has decided that _now_ there’s some urgency to close the investigation, which has apparently not been accomplished yet. So either he comes _here_ or I’m supposed to bring Tim down to the station, _before_ six-thirty, because ‘there’s no way he’s stayin’ late for this’. Where _is_ Tim anyway?”

“Um…” Dick blinks rapidly, taking it all in. “He’s over there—or he was, anyway. So what’re you going to do? And I really don’t think this’ll end well. He sounds like an ass.”

“He _is_ an ass,” Bruce mutters, walking over to peer down at Tim. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“…no?”

“Well, it’s definitely not the most comfortable position either, so please sit _on_ the chair. You’ll hurt yourself doing that. …Whose socks are those?”

Tim _doesn’t_ sit up properly, kicking one foot up to examine the item carefully. “Dick’s. Jason didn’t do his laundry.”

Bruce sighs and picks his battles. “We really need to get you some clothes, kid. You’re starting to look like an escaped inmate from Arkham. Jason, please remember to bring your laundry down for Alfred.”

Jason waves a hand in acknowledgement, chuckling softly at the description of Tim’s appearance. It’s true, though. Currently, the boy is wearing a sweatshirt that belongs to Dick, some of Jason’s old sweatpants (folded up several times so he doesn’t trip), and, of course, the ridiculously huge socks. This, coupled with the fading bruises, dark circles under his eyes, and messy hair, does indeed make him look like a resident of Arkham Asylum.

Tim shrugs, apparently not bothered by the description. He cranes his head up to look at Bruce.

“Are we going to the station?”

“No,” Bruce replies shortly. “We are not. I’m sorry, but if he _really_ feels that your testimony is _that important,_ then he can drive up here.”

“Okay.” Tim looks content with the answer. “Do you think he _will_?”

“Doubtful.”

“Okay. Hey, am I allowed to move yet?”

The answer to that question is a firm “no” from Alfred, a confused look from Bruce, and a “Tim, you’ve been moving this whole time” from Dick. This starts an argument over whether or not he _was_ moving that lasts all the way through dinner.

By the time they finally stop, Bruce is starting to regret ever having children—Dick is practically an adult and is having a full-blown argument with a 12 year old, Jason keeps winding them both up, and Tim has apparently decided that he’s comfortable enough (or he’s just drugged enough) to bicker over stupid things. Alfred seems incredibly amused and did nothing to stop the altercation beyond the occasional “there’s no need to yell” directed at the culprit. Bruce has stayed out of it, torn between amusement and annoyance, but by now he’s just ready to send both younger boys to bed and go on a nice, silent patrol… _alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed some fluff after this past week. My friend freakin' DIED on Friday, just out of the blue died in her sleep at 24 years old, and then my Grandmother passed away the next day. So yeah, I've attended two funerals in a week, and I'm still reeling. Lol, I'm probably gonna channel the pain into an angst-filled finale, just fyi!  
> Anyway, I'm thinking one more chapter for this fic. Don't be too sad though, because I'm actually planning a sequel :)


	19. Pasts and Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all wounds heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!!! (God, I HATE writing endings.)

Regardless of how much he might miss the relative peace that had existed before The Court, Bruce quickly tires of solo patrols. He’s surprised to realize just how much he’s gotten used to having a partner to distract him from the monotony of long, dark nights. Sure, there’s plenty of petty crime to deal with, but none of the major players have been out-and-about since the assassinations started—apparently, even the Joker knows better than to mess with The Court. But it’s been harder than he’d expected to enjoy the calm without anyone chattering obnoxiously in his ear.

As he returns to the Batcave after yet another long, fairly uneventful patrol, Bruce can’t quite keep from sighing with some amount of frustration over the fruitless night spent chasing down the remaining members of The Court of Owls. It’d be impressive, given the relative impossibility of a rich, widely respected member of the community disappearing without making even a ripple, if it wasn’t making his job that much harder.

It’s been a full two weeks since The Court fell, and, after the initial influx of socialites that Batman and the GCPD had managed to catch between them, it’s been nearly impossible to hunt down any of the members. The list Tim had provided was extensive, with more than fifty names on it, and at least twenty of those remained at large. Despite his resources and skill, even Batman has been at a loss as to where they’ve gone to, and it’s infuriating.

Tugging the cowl off, Bruce heads to the computer, choosing to update the files now, in an effort to calm down some more before going upstairs—while everyone has relaxed a little from recent events, Jason and (especially) Tim are still rather jumpy, and both boys are incredibly sensitive to Bruce’s moods. This is just another source of frustration to the man: in a lot of ways, it feels as though all progress made has been erased, destroyed by The Court.

Jason is tense in a way he hasn’t been since his very first year at the Manor, and his temper, which had gotten a lot better over the past few years, is back in full force—it seems like every other conversation with the teen ends in Jason angrily lashing out at whoever’s closest. The one person he seems to consistently keep his temper in check with is Tim— _thank God for that._

While Tim’s made a lot of progress in the past week, in a lot of ways, it feels like a major step back. Though the boy seems more comfortable interacting with them all, the trust that they’d managed to build seems to have been almost destroyed, along with whatever security Tim had felt. It’s especially obvious in the way he watches every motion made with rapt attention, the measuring looks before he says or does things, all very much like the first few weeks had been. He’s also sleeping poorly, if at all, especially now that he’s not on painkillers; and most of the time, if he _is_ asleep, it’s either curled up next to Dick or Jason or, _and this is definitely Bruce’s least favorite habit_ , he’ll turn up tucked away in some back room that nobody remembered existing or in a corner behind one of the couches.

As this comes to his mind, Bruce decides to pull up the surveillance feed and check on the boys. He’s always reluctant to access the cameras in the actual bedrooms— _it’s almost a violation of privacy—_ but given the circumstances, he ignores this and tries Tim’s room first. It’s predictably empty, and he starts going through the feeds methodically, hoping to find where the boy has gotten to. Jason is currently the only one asleep in his room, light still on as he sleeps in an awkward position, face resting on the book he’d been reading.

Bruce makes a note to remind Jason not to bring books to bed and continues his scan. Dick’s room is, unsurprisingly, empty—he’s currently on a mission for the League. Sighing with resignation, Bruce quickly checks the rest of the feeds, not remotely surprised when nothing turns up. Mentally making a list of places to install more security measures, he pulls up the GPS locator he’d gotten Alfred to sew into some of Tim’s clothes— _there had been a serious debate over the ethical implications, but after several nights of prolonged, increasingly frantic searches, both men had been in agreement regarding the necessity of being able to locate the boy faster._

The computer pulls up the blueprints for the Manor and surrounding grounds as the program starts. After a second, however, the map zooms out to search the nearest buildings as well. Bruce frowns as it quickly becomes obvious that the locator is nowhere near the grounds. Ignoring the rising panic, he adjusts the search to encompass the city, mind racing with possibilities.

 _Tim’s run before, maybe he’s done it again? Could one of the Talons survived? But he’d have_ heard _something if that were the case—he’s had all his sources scouring for anything to indicate a resurgence or possible locations survivors may have gone. Could the locator be turned off?_

But just as Bruce starts to check for any evidence of a malfunction, the program pings and pulls up an address on the far side of the city. It’s a good half-hour by car in the dead of night, nearly a full two during rush hour, and _definitely_ further than most people would and could walk. He rushes back to the car and slams down on the gas, planning on cutting the drive down to _at least_ fifteen minutes.

As he watches alertly for any late-night traffic or pedestrians, Bruce has plenty of time to mull over the entire situation: _how did Tim manage to get all the way across town, in the middle of the night, on foot? Obviously, the most likely scenario is that this is a trap. But if so, then_ who _set it?_ Growling softly as he swerves to avoid a taxi, Bruce decides that, regardless of the situation, he is _definitely_ going to program in an alarm that’ll go off if Tim _so much as sets foot_ outside the house during the night.

Just in case it _is_ some sort of trap, he opts to park the car a few blocks away. Pulling the cowl back on, he takes to the roofs, moving silently, blending into the dark almost seamlessly. In a matter of moments, he reaches the street, pausing to look around and assess the situation. The street is completely deserted, wet pavement reflecting the streetlamp dimly.

Scouring the streets from his perch, Batman quickly rechecks the coordinates—they’re correct. He’s sitting on top of an apartment complex, and there’s nothing remarkable about the surrounding buildings or the park across from him. Cautiously, he jumps and lands silently in the street, looking around for any evidence of either a trap _or_ Tim, but nothing stands out. _Not that_ this _is a surprise, given the impressive skill Tim has for remaining unseen, even to Batman._ Squinting with concentration, he moves to inspect the gate to the park, noting as he approaches that the chain is undone, clinking softly in the light breeze.

Glancing up to read the words above the entrance, he’s slightly surprised to realize that it _isn’t_ a park at all—the delicate metalwork reads “Greeneview Cemetery and Memorial Garden”. He reaches out and gently pushes the gate open, wincing a little as the hinges creak and squeal. The gravel path crunches and makes squelching sounds under his boots, unavoidable noises given the puddles left from rain.

As he walks along, Bruce scans the grounds, looking for any signs of life. It’s a well-kept place, and the affluence of those interred here is obvious in many of the grave markers that line the path. He can feel his pulse quicken when he spots a flash of color from between the tombstones and shrubbery. Tensing slightly with anticipation, he makes his way as silently as possible between marble pillars and statues, senses straining to catch any evidence of danger. Clearing another bush, he looks around, trying to orient himself—the only colors he sees now come from the faded silk flowers placed by some of the graves.

Frowning, Bruce debates calling out, then shakes the urge off— _better safe than sorry…and Tim wouldn’t answer anyway._ He continues to weave between the markers, trying to locate the boy. After a few more seconds of wandering rather aimlessly, he comes around a shrub and sees a figure standing about thirty feet off. Deciding to assume that it’s not just another sculpture, Bruce moves swiftly forward until he can finally make out the form.

Tim is just standing there, in the middle of the clearing, back straight and fists clenched tightly at his sides. He’s wearing only a pair of faded pajama pants, bottoms muddy from being dragged on the ground, and a t-shirt that proudly advertises a local restaurant. Bruce notes that he _does_ have boots on, which probably indicates some level of forethought.

Letting out a slow sigh of relief, Bruce moves until he’s about a foot away and waits. In the silence that follows, he takes in the scene, noticing the names on the tombstones in front of them, taking in the stony expression on the boy’s face, juxtaposed by the slight trembling of his lip and the tear tracks on his cheeks. He doesn’t seem to notice the breeze that’s picking up, ruffling his hair and making the leaves rustle in the trees. After what seems like an infinite silence, he lets out a long, shuddery breath.

“I didn’t get to…um…” Tim sighs and clenches his fists tighter. “to…” He trails off and gestures vaguely. “Yeah.”

Bruce frowns sympathetically, but doesn’t respond—he can sense that there’s more to come. Instead, he tugs the cowl back off and closes his eyes, inhaling the cool, humid air. And then he opens his eyes and waits for what will come next.

Finally, Tim blurts out “I _hate_ them.”

There’s so much vehemence in his voice that Bruce’s gaze snaps down instantly, taking in the icy gleam in the boy’s eyes. He doesn’t have a response—he can’t imagine that sort of feeling; he’s always missed his parents, would have done _anything_ to have them back. But he doubts saying as much will help anything.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says softly, not sure what else he can say. But he notices that some of the tension leaves Tim’s shoulders, as though he was waiting for Bruce’s reaction.

“I used to wait for them to come back, you know. Even after I… _I knew_ that they wouldn’t. They didn’t want to be there.” _With me,_ the unspoken words fill the space, stifling and suffocating.

Before Bruce can even consider an answer, Tim keeps going, almost spitting the words out.

“When I was little, I thought maybe it was something I’d done—that’s why they didn’t want me or…or _love_ me. I mean, I guess they _did,_ but…” He bites his lip, looking away from the graves. “ _They sold me._ And everything they did do wasn’t for me, it was for _them._ Everything was about securing _their future._ But…I…I still _missed_ them.”

Those last words come out choked, and Bruce _knows_ that he means “I still _loved_ them.” It’s an incredibly sad understanding, and he wants very much to pull Tim into a hug and hold him there until there’s no sadness left in his small body.

“I’m… _glad_ they’re dead,” Tim blurts out, sounding slightly horrified with himself. “There’s no more… _waiting_ for them to _come back,_ or _remember that I was there,_ or…or… _love me._ They spent all that time not wanting me, you know. And then it was time to _actually_ get rid of me, and…it would’ve been _easier_ if they hadn’t done _anything._ But…she…she _fought._ For _me.”_

He looks up at Bruce, asking in a small voice, “Why’d she do that? She’s the one who wanted to get away from me, _she decided that it’d be easier not to love me._ I’d gotten used to it, it was okay—I knew they would never love me like…like I loved them. And then…she left Dad in there, let them _kill_ him to give her more time…give _us_ more time. She ran out of the hall, _grabbed me,_ dragged me towards the stairs. She said to…to hide. Said that she was _sorry._ That she…” He takes a shaky breath. “She _loved me._ And that’s what’s _worse_. She loved me? She did all those things…and she _still loved me._ Why did she have to say that?”

Bruce sighs and crouches down until he’s at eye level with Tim. “I don’t know, Tim. I’m sorry.” He gently puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But…I _do_ know that…sometimes,” he sighs, trying to phrase it properly. “Sometimes, people can love someone, but they don’t really…know how to do that. And they hurt the ones they love because of that. And maybe they try…they try to _not_ love, because it hurts them too. But it doesn’t make the hurt less for _either_ person. It’s not that easy to stop loving someone, even though it’s very easy to hurt them sometimes.”

He sighs and squeezes Tim’s shoulder gently. “What they did to you was wrong, Tim. And I’m sorry that nobody stopped it…that _I_ didn’t do anything to stop it. And if you don’t want to forgive them, if you _can’t_ forgive them, nobody is going to blame you for that. It’s not wrong of you to hate them or to be glad that they’re…dead. And I’m sorry, but I don’t know why your mother would…make the choices she did. But I think that maybe she _did_ love you, even though she did what she did. And I think that she realized what she’d done to you, and that she _was_ sorry for that.” Bruce stops, looking at Tim intently for a second. “I think she’d want you to be happy, Tim, even if it was because she was gone. She was sorry, and she _knew_ that you deserved a lot better than her, even though she never said so.”

Tim bites down harder on his lip, eyes downcast. And then he moves forward, pressing his face against Bruce’s chest. Slowly, Bruce wraps his arms around the boy, pulling him into a hug. He can feel the tension easing out of Tim’s shoulders, can feel the way his breathing is ragged as sobs seem to rip out of him. Bruce grimaces in sympathy, holding the boy tighter. He’s not entirely sure how to comfort Tim—if it were Dick at this age, the hug would be enough; with Jason, words provided more comfort than touch, especially at first; but he has no idea what will work for Tim. For a moment, he wishes that Dick were here instead of himself, because his oldest son seems to have an innate understanding when it comes to Tim’s needs. But he dismisses the idea quickly, because Dick is nowhere near here, Bruce is.

And so Bruce stays crouched in the mud, feeling every hitching breath Tim takes as he waits for the boy to calm. It takes at least ten minutes before the jerking sobs slow and his breathing evens out. After a few minutes of this slightly calmer breathing, Bruce sighs and adjusts his hold so that he can peer down at the boy.

“It’s okay, Tim. You’re okay.” He waits for a moment, looking for a response. None comes, so he continues. “It’s okay.”

He keeps repeating the words, trying to provide some comfort. After a few seconds of this, he starts to notice how the temperature has dropped—the wind is picking up and the dark clouds threaten more rain. He sighs again, glancing down at the dark mop of hair nestled against his chest.

“We need to get inside, okay? It’s getting ready to rain, and you don’t have a jacket.” This time, he can feel a small nod. “Okay. How’s your back? Does it hurt much?”

“It’s not bad,” Tim says face still pressed against Bruce’s chest. “I’ve had worse.”

Bruce decides not to acknowledge that comment, instead he just picks the boy up, quietly thankful that he’s small enough to lift easily. He feels Tim tense slightly, clearly startled by the motion. Bruce prepares to set the boy down, but is relieved when Tim relaxes, clearly deciding it’s not worth it.

He walks slowly, watching his footing in the muddy grass—the last thing he needs right now is to accidentally drop the boy. However, by the time he reaches the street, Tim is completely limp against him, either asleep or exhausted to the point of collapse. Bruce is silently thankful for this, and as he carefully settles the child, now fast asleep, into the backseat of the Batmobile, he cannot help but feel hopeful, not just for Tim, but for all of his boys—all of them damaged, yes, but survivors too, resilient and strong. They are haunted by the ghosts of their pasts, but he can’t help but believe that they will end up far better off than even he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, good reader, we have reached the end. I'm NEVER happy with endings, but I'm pretty happy with a majority of this chapter.  
> Okay, I already know that there's gonna be at least one person who dislikes the whole bit about Tim hating his parents and being glad they're dead and it all being okay. So here's my reasoning--I wrote this chapter to help myself. I wrote what I wished was said when my grandparents passed.  
> Feeling both happy, sad, and angry that a person is dead is common for victims of abuse, especially if that person is directly involved with their abuse. Whether Tim's parents were abusive or not is up for debate--if you give your kid everything but affection and attention, is it abuse? But they were directly responsible for the abuse he suffered in The Court of Owls. Many people say that we need to forgive our abusers, but in truth, it is not always possible. And that's perfectly healthy and normal. You have to make peace with what happened, but it doesn't always mean you can forgive them. Hence that entire part of the chapter.  
> In other news, thanks so much for reading and sticking with me! I've got a sequel in the works (I believe there were some questions about whether I'd follow the canon and kill Jason or not?) and it should clear up some of the things left unfinished (like Jason). Stay tuned...

**Author's Note:**

> I read this headcanon thing on Tumblr a while back where they basically pointed out that it makes little sense that the Grayson family was involved with the Court of Owls that much. BUT, it would make some sense if they'd chosen the Drakes.  
> The Drakes have been in Gotham for a long time (as far as I can tell), and both Jack and Janet were definitely ambitious. What if they made a deal with the Court--money and prowess in exchange for a child. They could travel and the Court would have their new Talon. It'd make sense for them to be distant parents, the sort who put their kid in gymnastics and martial arts, but are never overly involved. After all, he's not theirs, they're just custodians, supposed to care for him and start training him to be Talon.  
> And thus an AU was born!


End file.
